


Gold Rush

by ShirleyCarlton



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 69, Abduction, Anal Masturbation, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Blowjobs, Case Fic, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Mary-free zone, POV Alternating, Post S3, Slow Build, a bit of angst, and conveniently ignoring the whole Moriarty-thing, and the fact that Sherlock committed a crime that wouldnt realistically have him just living at 221B, and then here’s some new tags for Parts II and III, bonus points if you can guess which one, bottomjohn, bottomlock, but that's why it's fanfiction :), mention of past sexual abuse, sort of, switchlock, very loosely based on an original ACD story, watching porn, with fanart illustrations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-27 20:57:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 71,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2706491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShirleyCarlton/pseuds/ShirleyCarlton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has divorced Mary and pops round to 221B one evening to find Sherlock in the middle of a case. As Sherlock tries to find the identity of a young woman’s stalker, John realises he can no longer deny his feelings for Sherlock – which then, to their befuddlement, turn out to be mutual. Shy kisses and tentative embraces ensue. But will Sherlock be able to cast off a shadow from his past that he thinks might prevent John from wanting to stay?</p><p><i>I actually wrote this story in such a way that, if you leave out the explicit bits (and all the unspoken thought processes of course), each Part could realistically be an actual (post-S3) episode of the show (in terms of length, story arc, setting and the way it is loosely based on one of the original stories by Arthur Conan Doyle).</i> :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been working on this fic since February (2014) so it feels really weird and slightly scary to finally send it into the world, but I’m very much looking forward to any comments or kudos. :D
> 
> Infinite thanks to my betas [Mydogwatson](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/) and [Gingerhermit](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Gingerhermit/pseuds/Gingerhermit/) for providing invaluable feedback and helping me better understand the bloody English language (LOL); thanks to my real-life (non-shipper) friends Jonathan and Hannah for letting me pester them with a million questions about typically British sayings and cultural background; and thanks to [Redherring/Shirelockhomes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/redherring/) for proofreading the whole thing one last time. Furthermore, I would like to thank my wonderful real-life johnlock friend Amber for Brit-picking the final draft!
> 
> Also, a million thanks to [Sherlockedart](http://sherlockedart.tumblr.com) for letting me use their amazingly beautiful drawings as illustrations for this story. Although I picked most of them after having already written the accompanying scenes, a few actually helped me to write scenes I had been struggling with, inspiring me to steer them in a certain way – and leading to a result I’m actually quite proud of.
> 
> Finally, I want to thank my wonderful husband for his patience and understanding while I was working on this writing project, even when it turned out to be rather more time-consuming than initially anticipated. You are the Sherlock to my John. xxx
> 
>  
> 
> **EDIT (June 2016): So I've decided to add another eleven chapters to this fic, which initially only had six. I hope these make the story even more enjoyable. :) I aim to update about once a week.**
> 
>  
> 
> **Comments are greatly appreciated!**

**Part I**

Sherlock stood with both hands in the pockets of his dressing gown, staring out of the window at the occasional cars and pedestrians below on Baker Street as they made their way through the light fog.

Each of the passers-by had their own unique characteristics, of which nobody seemed aware but him. It was hard not to observe their destinations and motives, just as it would be hard for other people not to see it if the information had been written all over them in graffiti. The woman on her way to a lunch date; the man who had obviously just been fired from a bank; the old lady walking her neighbour’s dog because her own had passed away.

Sherlock took a long breath in through his nose, trying to cleanse his mind of the chaotic thoughts that had been roaming his consciousness.

John was single again.

Sherlock couldn’t help but feel relieved that Mary was out of the picture (and safely incarcerated under Mycroft’s beady eyes), even though all he wanted was for John to be happy – and she _had_ seemed to have that effect on him, at least initially. Everything had changed once she’d shot Sherlock, of course, let alone when the rest of her background had come to light. But the cherry on the cake had been when Sherlock’s (initially withheld) prediction about John not being the father of the baby turned out to be correct. It had been obvious, really: that David had been rather fishy from the beginning and eventually a DNA test had proven exactly what stream he'd been swimming in.

Nevertheless, in spite of all this, Sherlock still couldn’t quite reconcile himself with his own satisfied and light-hearted mood now that John was alone again. Was he being insensitive again by not feeling sad for him?

Of course, it was nice that he’d recently been seeing slightly more of his old friend thanks to the new situation. Truth be told, however, John was often plain exhausted or preoccupied with work and not very responsive company at all. But that didn’t matter a lot to Sherlock. He just liked to have him around and thus be reminded of the good old days they had spent together, even if they were both different men now. When John was there, Sherlock always felt more alive, more purposeful.  
Cheery, even.

A couple of times, as it did again now, the thought had crossed his mind that he could ask John to move back in with him. But this was probably a foolish thing to even contemplate. John had a good job as a GP now and no longer needed a flatshare.  
Damn stupid _sentiment_ for missing John.  
He was doubtlessly just being selfish, anyway.

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair and turned back to his desk. More specifically, to the papers lying scattered across it. He still couldn’t make any sense of the facts surrounding his latest case.  
He picked up a stress ball in the shape of a deadly Mycobacterium – a gift from Molly for some occasion he couldn’t remember – and squeezed it till it disappeared altogether under his now whitening knuckles.

Initially, the affair had hardly seemed worth his attention. A girl had come to him because she suspected she was being stalked. But there had been something a tiny bit unusual about it, and Sherlock had been bored, so he had decided to take the case after all. And he still hadn’t solved it to his satisfaction.

As his gaze rested on the papers without really seeing them, he went over all the details of his meeting with her yet again, looking for fresh clues in what she’d told him.

* * * * *

Three days earlier, the young lady – blond, chubby, early twenties – rang the doorbell to 221B. She stepped into the flat with an easy smile, as if she’d been there many times before, but without being impertinent. She seemed well-educated and intelligent enough, fortunately, and didn’t appear overly surprised when the first thing Sherlock said after offering her a seat was “music teacher?” She just smiled and nodded.

“Mister Holmes, I’m afraid it’s not a terribly exciting matter that I’ve come to see you about,” she said apologetically. “All I need is for someone to trace the identity of this bloke that keeps following me around, so I can report him to the police. They’re not willing to help me as it is, because they think my story is too vague and doesn’t seem _alarming_ enough.” She said the last words while obviously barely managing not to roll her eyes. “But he is seriously starting to freak me out, to be honest.”  
She smiled shyly again at this.

“Hm.”  
Sherlock curled his lips inward as he tried to assess whether this might be a case he’d be willing to take or not. At least the girl didn’t seem senseless or paranoid. He squinted at her for a moment before telling her to proceed.

“Well, it started about three weeks ago, or at least that’s when I started noticing, anyway.” She took a deliberate breath. “At random moments of the day, whenever I’m walking somewhere – and I go by foot quite often – this bloke in a hoodie is following me. Every time I turn around to look at him, he pretends not to see me and turns away, studying a shop window or suddenly looking down at his phone. He’s there half the time I go out, whether it is to work, to the supermarket, to yoga class, or off to have lunch with a friend. It’s creepy.”

 _A shy stalker, afraid to be noticed yet tenacious_ , Sherlock thought. _Well-prepared, if he knew about her lunch dates. Somebody without a job or working flexible hours. Or with a job that justified walking around London. Most probably romantic interest._

“Have you recently ended a relationship?”

She shook her head, briefly looking down at her hands, as if this embarrassed her. “No, I haven’t had a boyfriend in... about two years.”

“Anybody you’ve fallen out with in any other way?”

“Not that I’m aware of.” She looked up at him, patiently waiting for the next question.

“Perhaps one of your pupils? An adolescent with a crush?”

“Could be,” she replied with a pensive expression, but a matter-of-fact tone, “although I would say his physique doesn’t look young enough to be one of them.”

Sherlock alternately tapped his fingers on his armrests. He hated this phase of doing research; he was always impatient to get a proper lead that he could actually work with. It was a matter of struggling through all the inane and obvious questions that his clients had been too insipid to ask themselves.  
He let out a long, almost inaudible sigh.  
“Do you have any Facebook friends that you’ve never met in real life?”

“No.”  
She put one of her fingernails between her teeth, but took it out as soon as she realised she was doing it.

“Followers on Twitter?”

“Yes...” She frowned.

“Hm. Does he always wear the same hoodie?”

“Yes, I think so. Dark blue with some kind of white logo on the back, a giant snowflake.”

_Someone who probably owned only one hoodie and normally wouldn’t want to be found dead in one. Doesn’t narrow it down much, though._

“How would you further describe him?”

She raised her eyebrows, cocking her head. “Well, he has a rather long blond beard, and large-framed spectacles.” She paused to think for a moment. “Other than that, I can’t tell you much, I’m afraid. He’s of average height, average build and about my age, I would guess. I never managed to see his face clearly.”  
She moved slightly forward in her chair and furrowed her brow. “But now comes the interesting bit. The other day, I got so fed up with the whole business, that when he was behind me again as I was on my way to work, I decided to just turn around and approach him. He panicked, started running back the way we’d come – which is when I noticed the snowflake on his back – and then he suddenly dashed into a silversmith’s workshop. I was certain I’d cornered him and decided surely it would not be unsafe for me to follow him into such a posh shop. I swear I entered the tiny shop only seconds after him. Imagine my surprise when he wasn’t there!” She paused, her eyes wide. “There was just the old man behind the counter, working on some piece of jewellery. I asked him where the other guy had gone, of course, but he claimed that nobody had come into his shop all morning. There was only one way he could have gone, of course. There was a door in the far wall with a sign that said ‘private’.”  
She leaned backwards in her chair again. “So the silversmith was obviously in on this, somehow, but I couldn’t get more information out of him.”

“Either that, or he’s partially deaf and blind and your follower knew this, and used it to his advantage to sneak past him to the back of the shop,” Sherlock mumbled, staring up at the wall ahead. “Fascinating. I’ll take the case.”  
He bared his teeth in a grin, thinking that she’d told him all there was to tell.

“I do actually have a suspect,” the girl said, to his disappointment, as she fumbled with the handle of her bag.

“Oh? Please enlighten me with your theory, then.” When clients had their own suspects, they were usually right and the cases rarely were worth his effort.  
He tried to smile at this, to at least partially hide his sarcasm, but failed.

“Well, I’ve recently been seeing this South African guy, Bob, …”

_Oh, dull, just an obsessed potential boyfriend, of course. I should have known._

“… and one Sunday afternoon, when the weather was really nice, we had been out for lunch together, and then decided afterwards to go to his house and collect his and his flatmate’s bicycles, to go for a ride in Hampstead Heath. So we entered the downstairs hall to their flat, and Bob yelled up the stairs ‘Jack! Can I borrow your bike this afternoon?’ I heard a gruff ‘sure’ and we walked to the kitchen at the back of the house. Bob told me to wait there while he went to fetch the bikes from the shed, and while I was standing there, his flatmate walked in. Immediately started telling me how pretty I was, coming on to me in the most unseemly and irritatingly confident manner. I instantly disliked him.” She looked like she’d taken a gulp of vinegar. “He’s the kind of guy who thinks he can have any girl he likes because of his good looks and past successes, I imagine. He seemed pretty surprised when it didn’t work with me. Or oblivious, it was kinda hard to tell, really.”

Sherlock frowned. “I see. Does he have a blond beard?”

“No, but I suppose it’s not very hard to stick one onto your face when you don’t want to be recognised.”

Sherlock smiled a tight, polite smile, as he had been wrong about his earlier assumption.

“The thing is,” the girl continued, “I bumped into this Jack on two separate occasions since. Once just outside the school where I work and once at Sainsbury’s – while their flat is at least three miles the other way. Behaving even creepier than the first time I met him, being all over-familiar with me and all. So that’s why I think there is a chance that it’s him.”

“But of course he wasn’t wearing a blue hoodie then, or trying to conceal himself,” Sherlock stated.

She shook her head, obviously realising that this was a strange inconsistency.

Sherlock steepled his fingers, pressing them against his lips, while he processed all the information.  
“Alright,” he said, after a long pause. “What else can you tell me about this Jack?”

“Well, not much really. He’s a ginger. And he’s got the same South African accent as Bob. I think they came here together, but they don’t seem to be the best of friends, as Bob refused to talk about him whenever I tried to fish for information since.”

“Okay, what about Bob? You said you started dating... when?”

“About a month and a half ago.”

“How did you meet?”

“Well, I don’t really see how that could be of any relevance,” she started to say, hesitantly, as her eyes restlessly scanned the detective’s face.

“I’ll be the judge of that. How did you meet?”

“He approached me on Facebook, actually. Noticed I was single and also lived in London. He wanted to get to know people, as he’d just moved here.” She blushed once she started talking about him. “He seemed nice, so we went for a coffee. I didn’t add him back until after we’d met, mind.”  
She didn’t seem sure for a moment what else to say, then continued. “I really like him. He’s so sweet and considerate. A good listener.” She looked away as she added, with a sigh, “But I’m not sure he feels the same. He appeared keen at first, but lately he just seems a bit distracted during our dates and he even cancelled the last two we’d planned. The first time, he said he’d forgotten he had promised to go see a film with Jack. That’s the evening I ran into Jack in the supermarket.”  
She tried to smile and lifted her chin. “Sorry, I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. It has nothing to do with the case, of course.” She cleared her throat, looking towards the door, her face flushed.

Sherlock frowned, mentally scanning what she had said for relevant details.  
“Back to your stalker. Have you ever seen him interact with anyone?”

The girl thought hard at this, then remembered. “Yes, actually. Once he got into a conversation that sounded like an argument, with another guy on the street. I quickly walked on, glad to have lost him.”

“Hm. Do you have any connection to South Africa at all?” Sherlock asked, finally.

“No, I’ve never been there.” She looked puzzled. “Never known anyone who has, either, until Bob and Jack, that is. Well, except one uncle, who moved there when I was little, but he’s hardly been in touch since my dad died. But all I’m asking of you, really, is to just find out who my stalker is. A name is all I need. Well, and preferably some photographic proof. I was told you were good at shadowing people yourself.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, ignoring her, while categorising all the known facts, and ascertaining whether he needed to ask any more questions.  
Once he’d satisfied himself that he had enough to go on for the moment, he opened his eyes and stood up.

“Just one more thing,” he smiled, a bit more sincerely this time. “Your name.”

“Oh, sorry! I haven’t even introduced myself. You know half my life but not my name,” she giggled, suddenly looking five years younger. “It’s Violet Smith.”

“Thank you, Miss Smith. If you would be so kind as to write your contact details on this card, I’ll do my best to solve this little mystery for you. Oh, please do add also the last names of your South African friends, your Twitter username, your working hours and yoga timetable. Saves me a lot of trouble. And please ignore me if you notice me following you about London.” He raised one eyebrow while adding “Not that I suspect you will.”

* * * * *

Sherlock opened his hand and watched the silly googly-eyed stress ball resume its original shape in his palm.

Following the follower had been easy enough. He _was_ good at it, after all.  
But the surprising thing had been that the stalker had turned out to be the aspiring boyfriend, Bob, not his flatmate Jack.

Of course, Sherlock could have just left it at that and let Violet know. But he was determined to solve the mystery in its entirety, including Bob’s motive.

At first glance, it would simply seem Bob was obsessive about his potential new girlfriend, but it didn’t make sense that to Violet he had frequently seemed reluctant to meet again and cancelled their last dates, at least once with a false excuse.  
Initially, the rather impressive disappearance in the shop had been the main reason for Sherlock to be convinced that there was something more to this. He’d soon found out, however, that both Bob and Jack were gold traders, which explained Bob’s successful vanishing trick in a silver and goldsmith’s workshop. Probably a client he knew well. Sherlock would pay him a visit as soon as he had the necessary prop to give him a believable excuse to start a conversation about the supply of gold. Hopefully tomorrow.

Sherlock sank into his desk chair, fished his laptop from under the papers and opened it, determined to follow every lead he had to the bitter end.

He spent the following hours analysing Bob’s posts and comments on Facebook and Twitter, and looking at the information on his LinkedIn profile, on the website of the company he worked for, as well as that of his former employer, the college he’d attended and the Dungeons&Dragons forum where he was active.  
But other than telling him Bob was a somewhat geeky, slightly dyslexic and fairly devoted roleplayer with an enthusiasm for medieval weaponry, none of that provided any useful insights into his behaviour.

Such a nuisance that he didn’t have John at his immediate disposal anymore. John might very well be able to derive something from all this about Bob’s character that Sherlock was missing.  
It wasn’t very likely that Sherlock would see him any time soon though, as he’d seen John only last week. He was busy with other things and probably needed space. Better not to bother him with this. Not now.

Just as Sherlock was about to close his laptop in frustrated exhaustion – he actually heard his stomach rumble, which it did only when faced with near-fatally low blood glucose levels – he decided on an impulse to quickly look up Violet’s South African uncle before heading to pillage the fridge. A minute later, he let out a low growl, rolling his eyes at himself for not having checked out this link sooner, but all the same an evil spark gleamed in his eye as he gazed at his screen with a wide grin on his face. The guy owned two gold mines. Bob and Jack were gold traders. There was no way this could be a coincidence.

 _The universe is rarely so lazy_.

He stared blankly but contentedly ahead for a while, satisfied at having found this new clue, then jumped up with new energy and walked into the kitchen – only to find the fridge empty. He decided to drink an entire carton of tomato juice he found in a cupboard instead. The new trains of thought hurtling through his mind provided their own fuel.

Another two hours of googling later, he had learned that Violet’s uncle was terminally ill. And since he never married, his niece was in all probability his only heir.

That should be an interesting surprise to her.

Sherlock got up and aimlessly paced the room for a bit, then found himself staring out of the window again at the light March drizzle that had started to descend through the evening air as a series of new scenarios started to form in his mind.

His eyes widened a fraction and his thoughts were put on hold when he spotted a compact blond man with a fur-lined hood, making Sherlock’s heart beat faster for a few moments until the man turned his head to cross the street. It wasn’t him.

Of course it wasn’t him.


	2. Chapter 2

It had been a hectic couple of weeks – filled with lawyers, divorce papers, disposing of Mary’s things – and John decided to go for Chinese takeaway on his way home from work. He walked to the restaurant around the corner from the surgery just as dusk was setting in and changed the city into a landscape of lights. The pavement glistened and small puddles reflected the streetlamps and neon signs above, their already blurry mirror images distorted by the little raindrops that continued to fall.  
John didn’t mind the rain, even though he had no umbrella. In the arid heat of the Afghan deserts he had made a vow never to complain about precipitation ever again in his life. If anything, the typical London drizzle made him feel at home.  
He did, however, very much mind his currently empty stomach; he was ravenous and couldn’t wait to have something to eat.

Yet, once he was sitting on the cheap bench with plastic dragons to either side, waiting for his turn, he realised he wasn’t very much looking forward to the empty foil trays staring at him afterwards from the coffee table of the impeccably decorated terraced house he had once shared with Mary. The mental image alone was enough to trigger the feeling of intense loneliness that kept ambushing him lately.

Since takeaway food reminded him of his days with Sherlock, it occurred to him he might as well go over to Baker Street and see if his old flatmate was in so they could eat together. Or he could eat in his company, at least, if Sherlock was in one of his fasting spells.

A smile played around John’s lips at the prospect of an old-fashioned evening with his best friend in front of the fire. Although there was always, of course, also the frustrating and almost sickening feeling of longing in his stomach whenever he was near Sherlock. Longing for what, exactly, he still wasn’t willing to admit to himself. Neither had he figured out how to deal with those silly feelings. They were ridiculous and completely futile. But always there, nevertheless. Over the years, he kept thinking he’d buried them deep down safely, out of reach, only to be reminded time and again that they had a habit of flaring up at the least convenient moments.  
Luckily, whenever John was at 221B nowadays, Sherlock would continuously keep John’s mind occupied with either elaborate narratives about his latest case, new scientific theories, or ravings about the stupidity of humanity – or one particular specimen thereof. John’s memory of the endless Sundays in their era as flatmates, during which they would just laze around the flat for hours, seemed like a lifetime ago – including the occasional infuriatingly long silences that John had pretended did not drive him up the walls.

By the time he reached Baker Street, John felt his hair probably looked like that of a teenager who had put too much gel in it: with little wet peaks sticking out in all directions. He climbed the familiar stairs of 221B with a take-away bag in each hand, exactly as he had done so many times in the past – the resulting series of déjà-vu moments conjuring up a nostalgic smile to his face.

Upstairs, he was glad to find Sherlock in the middle of a case: papers scattered all over the flat, pictures of a girl and three men pinned to the wall and Sherlock himself in his pyjamas and dressing gown. He had obviously been inside all day, racking his brain over all the details of the facts surrounding his latest mystery.

“Ah, John. Very fortunate timing.” Sherlock stopped pacing the room for a second and flashed a quick but genuine-looking smile at John, before cheerfully continuing on the same breath: “I’m stuck on this case and could use a fresh view, actually. Maybe you can shed some light on this.”  
He looked expectantly at John from under his brows, almost a bit timid, while absent-mindedly ruffling the dark curls at the back of his head with one hand.

“Well,” John sighed with a fond smile, “I’m basically knackered – _and_ starving, to be honest.” He lifted the takeaway bags to eye-level before setting them on the coffee table. “But tell me what you’ve got, anyway.”  
John plonked himself down on the familiar sofa and toed off his shoes, weary but secretly pleased to immediately be drawn into the endorphin-inducing rush of a hot case.

Sherlock pressed his lips together in a smile, turning to the wall with the pictures.  
“This girl came to me three days ago,” he began, waving his hand in the general direction of her picture – obviously taken through a telephoto lens. She was pretty. “She’s being stalked. I shadowed them and found out it’s the guy she’s recently started dating, heavily disguised. His name is Bob. But weirdly, he’s been acting less and less interested during their dates of late, while she really likes him. Not an obsessive boyfriend then.”

Sherlock moved about restlessly while he talked, repeatedly appearing about to pick one thing up but then turning back to another, and pointing at random patches of air of which only he knew what thought they represented. He always did when his brain was in overdrive, in the middle of a case that had not yet presented its vital clue.

John took a foil tray with chow mein out of one of the plastic bags and started to eat. He would be of no use with an empty stomach anyway. He shoved another tray and a set of chopsticks towards Sherlock, who didn’t seem to notice.

“The guy is South African,” Sherlock continued. “Moved here only a couple of months ago, together with a colleague. They’re in the gold trading business. The colleague is called Jack. Violet dislikes him. She actually suspected he was her stalker, as he had come on to her in an intrusive way the first time she met him, and she’s run into him on two separate occasions since, which she found suspicious, especially as he took the opportunity both times to shamelessly try and flirt with her again.” Sherlock stopped walking around for a moment to look at John and see if he was still following.

“Okay,” John said slowly, pursing his lips in contemplation.

“Now here’s the thing. Violet has an uncle who moved to South Africa years ago and has hardly been in touch since her father died; his brother. And guess what?” Sherlock held up both hands, palms facing the ceiling. “Turns out he’s made a fortune in the gold business and doesn’t have long to live. No other heirs except his niece in the UK.”  
He sat down in his desk chair, leaning back and intertwining his fingers, and looked at John intently.

John frowned, letting the facts sink in. “So... this Violet is about to inherit a fortune without her knowing it,” he muttered. “These guys, or one of them, somehow found out about this and decided to actually _move_ here in order to get close to her. So what’s their plan? And how does it relate to Bob following her around in disguise?”  
John took a spring roll and lifted it to his mouth, but momentarily let it hover there in mid-air as he was trying to see a solution.

“They both seem to be trying to seduce her, each in their own way,” Sherlock said thoughtfully. “Bob seems to have succeeded, I’d say, but has lost interest. But he hasn’t really, because he keeps following her everywhere she goes.” He stood up again and walked to Bob’s picture on the wall, giving it the intense and rather dominating stare he usually used on suspects to get them talking. It occurred to John that this was apparently not a conscious method at all, but rather a natural reflex that accompanied his scrutiny.

“My mind is going round in loops like a record stuck in a groove,” Sherlock hissed through gritted teeth, “going over the same ridiculous and useless theories that make no sense whatsoever, but are the only ones that keep popping back into my head; like whether he could be very unsuccessfully trying to create an opportunity to pickpocket her, so that he has her debit and credit cards that he can exhaust once the inheritance is in her bank account. _Of course not_ : she would have them blocked as soon as she noticed them missing.” His voice was gradually rising in frustration and the speed with which he spat out the _a priori_ rejected solutions increased correspondingly. “And it wouldn’t do to replace them with dummies, unless the uncle dies and the money gets transferred to her before she finds out about the dummies, which seems extremely unlikely.”

The idea crossed John’s mind to enforce a speed limit on Sherlock’s speech when other people – like himself – were in the room, but instead of suggesting anything of the kind, he just said “Hmm.”

Sherlock raved on.  
“Or if he might be trying to find out who her friends are and which ones she trusts, so that he can somehow get to her or her money through them? But he could do that far more easily by just continuing to date her.”

John blinked, frowning, no longer really trying to keep up. The energy from the food had not quite reached his brain yet.

“Does he want to find out what she would spend the money on so he can cash in, one way or the other?” Sherlock went on. “Then why would he be following her at 7.30 am when she’s on her way to work? She’s not likely to give any hints as to her hidden expensive taste at that time of day.”

There was a long silence in which Sherlock agitatedly fumbled through his papers and John ate more noodles, watching him and masticating on both his food and the known facts of this curious case.

“It seems to me that Violet is afraid of Jack,” John pointed out between two mouthfuls, “so maybe Bob is following her to protect her?”

“Protecting her from his own flatmate and old pal, with whom he travelled all the way from South Africa to the UK?”

John shrugged. “He must know Jack is up to something.”

“Well, it seems fairly obvious that, at least initially, once one of them had discovered that their boss’s lovely young niece in the UK was going to inherit his fortune in the not so distant future, the plan arose to try and marry her for the money. Perhaps they were both in on it, perhaps not. If it was single-handedly Bob’s idea, it would make sense that he’d start dating her, but not that he lost interest while at the same time still following her around. If it was Jack’s idea, the coming on to her makes sense, as does Bob’s following her assuming that he wants to shield her from him once he’s found out what his mate is up to. But in that case, he could also just tell her. And since he is the one who made contact with her in the first place, he can’t be that innocent. Another option is that they are in this together, thereby increasing the chance that one of them will succeed in winning her heart. They might have agreed to split the profit if it works.”  
Sherlock fell silent, looking puzzled.

John squinted his eyes in disgust, waving his chopsticks in mid-air. “Do people actually do that kind of thing?”

“These are not _people_ , John. They are _adolescents_ who happen to be midway through their twenties. They do little else than drink beer and watch crap telly, and they interact with friends mainly through roleplay, thus completely distorting their image of reality, which leads to the construction of ridiculous plans that have no basis whatsoever in the laws of logic.”

“Right. Want some pak choi?” John asked with a bland smile, holding out a tray to Sherlock.

Sherlock’s face suddenly shifted into a bored expression, his eyes turning upwards. “Yes, Mrs. Hudson, do come in.”

John raised his eyebrows and looked towards the door, which slowly opened halfway to reveal a blushing landlady.

“Oh hello, _John_ ,” she beamed from the landing. “I didn’t realise you were here. I thought Sherlock was talking to himself again.” She chuckled.

“I’ve been trying to tell you, I never talk to _myself_ , Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock snapped through gritted teeth. “That’s what the skull is for. _When_ will you finally understand that it is indispensable for me in order to be able to _think_ , which is what I tend to _do_ a lot when I’m solving cases.” He opened his eyes wide to glare at her for a second. Then, more calmly, and with a rather pathetic attempt at a smile, he added, “So would you please stop trying to remove it?”

Mrs. Hudson stepped over the threshold, pointing at him with a tiny box she was holding. “I think what you need more than anything is _John_. At least he talks back and tells you when you’re rambling.”

Sherlock looked bemused while John couldn’t help but smile, and he quickly looked down at his noodles, poking at them before he took another bite.

“Anyway,” she continued, her voice friendly again, “here’s the brooch you asked for. _Please_ don’t return it in a worse shape than it is. It was my aunt’s, after all. And probably worth more than one of those fancy suits of yours, once it’s properly repaired.”

“Don’t worry,” Sherlock said flatly, taking it from her with an elegant swoop. “The idea is to bring it to an expert to have it mended.” He opened the little box to examine its contents, then looked up. “At my expense, of course.”

“But what on earth _for_? I never wear it anyway.” Mrs. Hudson clasped her hands together in bewilderment.

“I need an excuse to go chitchat with one particular goldsmith and didn’t have any suitable brooches or earrings myself that needed mending,” Sherlock smiled cheekily. “That’s why.”

“Ah, I see. You devious creature. Here I thought for a second you were being nice.”

Sherlock’s smile dropped into an expression of disappointment. “I still _am_ being nice! I’m having your brooch repaired aren’t I?”

Mrs. Hudson just shook her head and winked at John as she left.

John watched her disappear down the hallway and exchanged his empty container for a new one from one of the bags.  
He tilted his head to one side and stroked his eyebrow, smiling to himself.  
“So who’s this goldsmith?”

“Oh, just some client of this Bob, who might be able to tell me a bit more about him.”

John pushed his lower lip forward. “Sounds like a good plan.” He lounged back on the sofa, taking the cardboard lid off the roast pork. “Let’s assume for a moment you were right about Bob and Jack having made some pact between the two of them. What if Bob then got second thoughts,” John said, shaking his finger at nothing in particular, “once he actually gets to know the girl and really likes her.”

They looked at each other blankly for a moment.

“It’s the most logical explanation,” John continued. “He’s probably madly in love with her. On the one hand, he wants to see her and begin a relationship, but on the other hand he does not want her to fall victim to the deal he struck with Jack, and he is sufficiently afraid of his friend not to break the deal. And Bob is determined not to let Jack succeed in seducing her, which is why he follows her to prevent him approaching her.”

Bob being in love with Violet in spite of the very mixed messages he was sending was typically something that Sherlock would overlook.

A smile began to form on Sherlock’s lips as the realisation dawned on his face that John had in all probability just solved the puzzle.

* * * * *

They re-heated the remaining Chinese food in the microwave and opened a bottle of wine. John felt the cosiness of the room drape over him like a comfy blanket as they sat in their chairs on either side of the fire.

As they ate, they talked about several old cases, reminiscing over particularly funny or bizarre twists they had witnessed together.

“And remember that time Lestrade was onto this smuggling ring,” John recalled, “and it turned out they were smuggling gay pornographic art back into China in the same vases they had hidden the tiger balm and rhino powder in on the way here? God, I’ll never forget the look on his face when he found that painting with the all-male orgy, thinking that his tips had been worthless. I have to admit, I was a bit puzzled myself.” John chuckled at the memory. “I think Lestrade was rather glad for your exceptional observational skills at that particular moment. Within about thirty seconds you had found and identified the traces of powder inside the pottery, preventing him from making a complete fool out of himself.”

Sherlock smiled dreamily in acknowledgement, swirling his wine in the glass. “Just like that time in the case with that series of violent street robberies,” he said “when he thought he’d caught his suspect and _you_ were the one to realise that the guy in the handcuffs was actually a disguised woman who had volunteered to create a diversion for her brother. A very successful one at that. Lestrade gaped at her like _this_.” Upon which Sherlock impersonated Lestrade’s wide-eyed and open-mouthed look of horror, one eyebrow raised slightly above the other. “Priceless,” he smiled. “Well, of course he caught the real culprit anyway in the end. Or rather, you did.”

John snickered. He would not soon forget how he’d eventually cornered the guy in an alley just the second a stag party came out through the back door of the adjacent club. He wasn’t exactly used to having an audience when he was holding people at gunpoint and making them lie flat on the floor.  
“At least that was the last time he stabbed someone to death for their wallet and phone,” John said, his smile exchanged for grim earnestness.

They sat in silence for a while, staring into the fire.

“You know, it has always struck me how practically all of my cases, both the ones involving crime and the mere personal mysteries, eventually always turn out to be motivated by money, love or honour,” Sherlock said. “But in Miss Smith’s case, it was an interesting combination of all three at the same time.”

John nodded thoughtfully, one corner of his mouth quirking up. “So what are you going to do now? Are you still planning on visiting that goldsmith?”

“Yes, I think he could come in very useful. We need to create a circumstance that breaks the deal without any trouble.” Sherlock was staring into the flames, obviously brooding on some plan.

John cradled his wine glass, privately delighting in the fact that Sherlock solving a case entailed so much more than him just elucidating the facts in order to cash his cheque. He used all his powers and creativity to actually solve people’s problems, not just the mysteries lying at the core of them. After all these years, the man still didn’t cease to amaze him. To think John had once been fooled into believing he didn’t have a heart. It might be small compared to his brain, but that didn’t say much at all in the case of such a genius.  
This was not just about the thrill of solving puzzles, John knew. He wasn’t sure whether it was a matter of really _caring_ about his clients, but certainly Sherlock had a strong desire to make things ‘right’, for everything to turn out well and for people not to suffer where it could be avoided.

John watched Sherlock as he sat completely motionless, lost in thought, the light of the flames dancing over his face. John’s eyes lingered on the soft shadow under the curve of Sherlock’s jaw, below his ear, where marble skin subsided into the shaded smoothness of skin pulled taut over the tendon of his slender neck.

John started as Sherlock suddenly, without moving his head, shifted his gaze and looked at John questioningly from the corner of his eyes. John quickly looked away, slightly embarrassed. He had been staring.

He felt his cheeks redden, which made him feel even more awkward. What on earth was _wrong_ with him? He swallowed, desperately trying to think about something else, anything other than the way his handsome former flatmate managed to magically conjure butterflies in his stomach.

In the following seconds, which appeared to stretch into eternity, he could still feel Sherlock’s gaze on him, and John’s eyes couldn’t seem to stop flicking back and forth between him and unfocused random points around the room. Even though it was just a sideways glance, John felt glued to the back of his seat, pinned down by the intensity of the one grey eye fixed on him. Jesus Christ, why was it so hard to push away the mental images that were flooding his mind? Sherlock hovering over him, really close, while John was on his back and Sherlock’s hips were pressing- - No, _no_.

_Think of... the skull! Or... or... the bat! Wasn’t there some funny story about who had given- -_

“John.”

John’s eyes shot back to the man sitting in the other chair. He was no longer peering at him with the intensity of a few moments ago, but was sitting back in his chair with an open expression.  
“I just wanted to say, I’m glad you’re here,” Sherlock smiled, looking down at his hands. “You know, Mrs. Hudson is right. You help me think a lot better than... my other friend.” He indicated the skull with his eyebrows, smirking. Then he turned more serious. “A lot better indeed.” His mouth spasmed in and out of a smile several times, as if his facial muscles weren’t used to the movement.

John chuckled.  
Wasn’t it weird how a dubious compliment like that made his heart flood with warmth?

Sherlock took a few sips of wine and John did the same. He realised he hadn’t seen Sherlock this relaxed in a while. Then again, there had always been things on his mind when they met lately – usually a case – and other people around.  
Come to think of it, John hadn’t felt this much at ease himself for a long time. Things with Mary had finally been settled, mostly anyway, and he was gradually starting to feel he’d gotten his life back. Sitting in front of the crackling fire with Sherlock, he found himself wishing time would stop and they could just sit here in their chairs like this forever. He wished he could make Sherlock smile all the time in that precious tentative and semi-shy way, which did something to John’s insides, something wonderful and nauseating at the same time. Something that made him want to take Sherlock’s face in his hands and... _Oh god_.

_There really was no point denying it to himself any longer, was there?_

John stared into his wine glass, eyes wide, his mind reeling, then took a large gulp.

Then he realised Sherlock was talking to him.

“... although I think you’re undoubtedly right. But it will be a nice opportunity to test your theory, because Bob must have given some explanation when he dashed into his workshop and asked him for a place to hide, unless the man is half blind and deaf and never noticed, of course, which is still a possibility.”

John blinked. He had no idea what Sherlock was talking about, but that probably didn’t matter. Apparently he helped him think anyway. He was glad he had at least some value of significance to Sherlock in that respect. Christ, he thought; he should really stop feeling like a dog that was happy just for being allowed near the fire. But with Sherlock, you just never really knew when you would be kicked away and John had grown to accept that, had actually accepted it from the minute they met. Although, to be fair, Sherlock was much less dismissive towards John now than he had been in the past... well, before his fall. Something had changed since then, but John had never been able to pinpoint exactly what it was.

Suddenly, his mind flashed back to the present as Sherlock, looking rather irritated, sneered, “Why is it that there is _always_ something that prevents people from just telling the ones they love how they feel, creating all kinds of infinitely complicated situations up to the point where they have to go and pay a detective to solve it all?”  
He put his fist to his lips and stared into the fire.

John tightly held on to his empty glass, perplexed. His mind had gone oddly blank, unable to wrap itself around what had just happened.

As soon as their eyes met, Sherlock dashed off to the kitchen, mumbling something about getting more wine.

His previous words echoed in John’s ears. Since when was Sherlock bothered with people’s troubles concerning affairs of the heart? Was it possible he had been reminded somehow of something closer to home? Probably something from a very long time ago, John mused. He had never really thought Sherlock capable of feeling romantic love, but who knew, perhaps he had one day in the distant past.

_Why do people not tell the ones they love how they feel?_

I should tell him, John thought. _I love you, Sherlock, always have_.  
God no, he couldn’t possibly do that. It would accomplish absolutely nothing.  
It must be his fatigue and the wine. Bad combination.

John shook his head involuntarily. How many glasses had he had?

He saw two empty bottles standing on the floor next to the side table.

As soon as Sherlock appeared with another full bottle, John pushed himself up from his chair.  
This took some more effort than he had anticipated.

“It’s… er… probably time for me to go,” he said, trying to focus on something that would make the room stand still. Perhaps he’d overlooked a third bottle earlier.

“Go? You don’t have to go.” Sherlock let the hand holding the new bottle drop to his side. “You can stay the night here if you like.” He cleared his throat, looking at the floor. “Actually, John, I want you to know you’re very welcome to move back in with me, if that’s what you’d like. In fact, I would appreciate that very much.” For several seconds his lower lip didn’t seem to know what to do with itself, before he continued, almost in a whisper. “I’ve missed this... you.”

John had never expected to ever move back here – or for Sherlock to outright admit that he’d missed him, at that – but he didn’t have to think about it for a second, now that Sherlock offered. This was the one place where he had been happy.  
“Oh god yes,” he replied with a soft, mischievous smile, shaking his head just once to one side without taking his eyes off Sherlock.

Time suddenly seemed to fall away, years disappearing into infinite space. They were both even standing in the exact same spot as they had that first time they’d been in this room together and he’d spoken those same words, just before dashing off on their first joint case.  
John couldn’t help his eyes straying to Sherlock’s lips for a second, then blinked. “I have missed you, too.” He swallowed, not sure what to say next.

Sherlock was standing only a step away from him, looking down fondly at his blogger and looking particularly handsome. All of a sudden, there was that same electricity in the air between them as there always was when they stood this close together with their eyes locked, which for some reason they had always found themselves doing quite frequently.  
Sherlock’s intense gaze was met by John’s open expression, his jaw set determined although his face was relaxed. Sherlock’s eyes were smiling and it was the most beautiful thing John could imagine ever seeing. Did he do this to Sherlock?

A familiar recurring question emerged from the back of his mind, more insinuating this time than ever before.

_Could there be a chance that he gave Sherlock the same fuzzy feeling inside as John experienced himself? Did Sherlock... perhaps... possibly... have more feelings for John than he let on?_

Lost in their mutual stare, John felt his heart overflowing with all the emotions he’d been trying to lock inside, jumbled together with random thoughts, observations and hunches from the past. He had tried so hard not to miss Sherlock that it had hurt. He now slowly felt himself disconnect from all his thoughts and from being _John Watson_ – whatever that meant – feeling only the moment and nothing else, no past, no world outside this room (definitely the wine), and then stared at Sherlock’s mouth for another moment before adding, “What’s more…” He then felt himself leaning forward, bridging the final gap between them and gently grabbing Sherlock’s neck as he softly pressed his lips against Sherlock’s.

Sherlock froze, his breath hitching, his body a tense bundle of muscles. John’s lips met with nothing but passive flesh.

As soon as he realised something was very wrong, John quickly pulled away and stepped backwards, hardly daring to look back up at Sherlock. His eyes fluttered about the empty space in front of his waist. “Oh god, I’m so sorry,” he stammered, hands in his hair as he started to turn away. “I don’t know what...”

Within seconds, Sherlock had caught his arm. “No, John, wait. _I’m_ sorry. I’m not good at this. _Please_.” His voice sounded uncharacteristically soft and vulnerable and he was looking at John with an otherworldly look, his eyes big and shiny. John was still waiting for his brain to start functioning again when Sherlock all of a sudden leaned in to kiss John once more.

Although it quickly became very obvious that Sherlock hadn’t kissed anyone in a while, it was also very clear that he really, desperately wanted this. He had grabbed John’s waist so tightly as if he were afraid John might otherwise turn and try to walk away again.

John instantly felt himself melt into Sherlock’s touch, electrified, high on shock and arousal at the same time, and kissed him back as gently and tenderly as he could muster with the amounts of adrenalin coursing through him: just pressing their lips together, afraid to overwhelm him again. He had been an idiot for jumping out there like that, but at the same time he was rather glad he had; there would not likely have been a better way. Sherlock was kissing him now. He did feel the same.  
The implications slowly started to crystallise in John’s mind, while he revelled in the feeling of Sherlock’s lips against his and Sherlock’s hands clutching him tightly, wantonly.  
It all felt surreal, in a very beautiful way that made John’s chest want to explode.

In one hand, Sherlock was still awkwardly clutching the bottle of wine.

After a minute of getting lost in the press of each other’s lips, they disengaged and looked at each other in stunned wonder.

Then Sherlock leaned to the side to put the bottle on his desk and they wrapped their arms around each other, neither of them apparently sure what to do, but both unwilling to let go.

John rested his forehead on Sherlock’s shoulder, letting out a long breath of relief. “Wow,” he sighed. “You probably won’t believe me if I tell you I’ve been wanting to do that for a very long time.”  
He was all but trembling. His very blood felt fizzy, like some carbonated drink. Champagne perhaps, he mused.

Sherlock smiled an uncertain smile, making a double chin as he tried to look down at John, which was however virtually impossible from this angle.

They just stood there for a long time in silence, breathing together.

“I... just always… I thought you were not gay,” Sherlock stammered, after a while.

“Well, _obviously_ I’m not gay. But it’s fairly evident that I’m not… entirely straight either.” John smiled a sheepish smile, feeling slightly embarrassed. He didn’t want to sound like a sex maniac who was happy to get off with _anyone_. “The truth is, I’ve never actually felt like this for any other bloke before. You just swept me right off my feet the minute I laid eyes on you, Sherlock Holmes, and I’ve been trying to ignore those feelings ever since. I became quite good at it, actually. I thought there wasn’t a chance in hell you’d ever be interested.”

“ _You_ never thought _I_ was interested?” Sherlock scoffed. “I was, you know,” he said softly. “The whole time.” His voice reduced to a whisper. “But I never allowed myself to even _consider_ the possibility that anything like this could actually happen. I honestly never...” His voice had been barely audible at those last words, until it died away altogether.

 _The whole time?_ John tried to wrap his brain around all these new facts. Had they literally been dancing around each other for years, _both_ pining for one another, each of them in the conviction the other one didn’t feel the same? He almost laughed at the farcicality of the idea, until he realised what it must have been like for Sherlock to witness all John’s endless attempts at romance, even being asked to be the best man at his fucking wedding, and he cringed. He remembered all too well how he’d felt when he thought Sherlock and Janine were in a relationship. And that painful illusion had not even lasted a full day.

“John, this is all very new to me,” Sherlock said, his voice sounding strangely croaky. “I don’t really know... what to say or to do. I just...” Since he couldn’t seem to find the words, he settled for hugging John even tighter.

John felt a lump in his throat, which should have made him feel ridiculous, but it didn’t.

Suddenly they both sniffed simultaneously, like old sentimental ladies at a wedding, which led them to burst out in nervous giggles, shaking while they still held one another.

“God, look at us,” Sherlock said, “reduced to stammering school boys.”

John smiled, biting his lip. Boy, was he glad for the liberating effect of alcohol. “I just can’t believe this is really happening, you and me.” He nuzzled Sherlock’s jaw, adding in a whisper, “I want you so badly, you have no idea.”  
Then he pressed another kiss to Sherlock’s surprised mouth, allowing his lips to part ever so slightly this time and caressing Sherlock’s with the tip of his tongue. Soon, he felt Sherlock do the same, a bolt of lightning hitting him in the gut as their tongues met for the first time, tentatively brushing against each other in a slow, mesmerising dance, which for that moment made the world stop spinning and the universe shrink down to pre-Big Bang dimensions.

Everything had fallen into place, finally.


	3. Chapter 3

It took Sherlock hours to fall asleep, which in itself wasn’t uncommon. However, the reason usually wasn’t that his bed felt empty and that he had to actively restrain himself from going upstairs and listening at John’s door, never mind opening it and... and... what, exactly?

There was suddenly the astonishingly overwhelming yearning for closeness, for holding and feeling a (very particular) warm body against his – all very disconcerting and undesirable emotions of course, and highly distracting.

And possibly worst of all, Sherlock felt a desire for the certainty that John would stay.

There was no such thing in the world as certainty, so it was quite futile to long for it, Sherlock knew. He had asked John to move back in with him and John had said yes (‘Oh God, yes’ no less), but then they had kissed and the world had been turned upside down.

Nonetheless, John had then simply brushed his teeth and gone up to his old bedroom as if everything was back to the way it had been.

Except for the good-night kiss, of course. Dear Lord. It had been almost too amazing to be true.

Sherlock found himself repeatedly needing to push away the thought that maybe it had just been the wine, that John would regret what had happened as soon as morning came.  
But that didn’t match with the things he’d said, about having wanted to kiss Sherlock for a long time.

Those kisses. God. They had still been relatively chaste, but Sherlock couldn’t help but smile like an idiot in the complete dark of his bedroom, thinking back about them. The last person he had kissed had been Janine and that had all been an act, of course. He couldn’t even actually _remember_ kissing her or touching her; he only remembered _the fact_ that he had, as he’d been completely shutting himself off. It probably should have been no surprise that initially he’d automatically done that with John as well. He never let anyone this close and it was all somewhat mind-blowing.

The truth was, he’d wanted this for so long that his brain didn’t quite seem to know what to do with itself now that it had become reality.

Sherlock had already tossed himself off once, as soon as he had gotten undressed, and now, as he lay awake, considered doing it again, but decided against it. He was too distracted by his own thoughts.

_Where would they go from here?_

He had hardly any reference at all for this kind of thing.

Furthermore, he couldn’t forgive himself for not having been able to see how John felt about him all this time. Naturally, he couldn’t blame John for not seeing it in _him_ , as Sherlock was well aware he was more than an expert at hiding his own feelings. But how could _he_ not have seen it in _John_ , who had always seemed an open book to him? It was a tantalising mystery.

Could it be that he had been blinded by his own expectations, or rather, in this case, the complete and utter lack thereof?

Tunnel vision was beyond any doubt and without exception the most unforgivable of fallacies, and it was infuriating that he had managed to be guilty of it precisely in this matter.  
Still, he smiled at the notion that if ever he had wanted to be wrong, it was regarding his judgment of John’s feelings for him.

Once he did fall asleep, he slept more soundly than he had in years. In his dreams, old memories of their time together mixed with a new imagined future. Strangely, it kept featuring a long-haired setter, which they took for long walks in the countryside, where bees kept merrily buzzing all around them.

* * * * *

The next morning, Sherlock woke up to the smell of coffee.

It took him only about half a second to remember what had happened the night before. He was slightly embarrassed to feel the kind of Christmas morning anticipation kids were shown to have in adverts as he flung his legs over the edge of his bed. He quickly got up and casually strolled into the kitchen, still wearing his pyjamas.

The kitchen table was still full with lab equipment from last week’s experiment, which was probably why John had chosen to sit at the desk in front of the window. The bright morning sun backlit his silhouette while he was sipping coffee.

“John.”

A broad smile lit up John’s face as he turned his head to greet Sherlock. “Hey! Good morning. Sleep well?”

Thank god. No signs of regret; John seemed his completely normal, genial self. Well, except for the presence of a significant twinkle in his eyes.

Sherlock nodded, stupidly standing in the middle of the room, a vexatious bubble of happiness gradually expanding in his stomach.

“I made coffee.”

“I noticed.” Sherlock curled his lips inwards to hide a smile as he looked at the man who had decided completely out of the blue to kiss him not twelve hours ago. He was real and he was here.

“Listen, ehm. Unfortunately I have to be off in about five minutes,” John said apologetically. “My shift starts at half eight.”

Sherlock frowned and struggled to remember what day of the week it was. Wednesday. He’d forgotten that normal people leave for work early in the morning on most days.

How dull.

John stood up and walked over to him, leisurely wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s waist in a way that was somehow incredibly sensual and flirtatious – and did all kinds of things to the precapillary sphincters throughout Sherlock’s body.  
Pressing his nose against Sherlock’s cheek, John said quietly, “Don’t worry. I’ll come back straight after, if you like.”

Sherlock turned his head toward John’s face to reply, but the only response his brain was apparently capable of with John pressed close to him like this was to kiss him. It was a motionless locked-lips kiss, which froze time and made Sherlock’s mind go blissfully peaceful and still. That was, until he suddenly became aware of a half-hard prick pressing against his leg, which promptly made his heart beat in his ears.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” John eventually mumbled with a big smile against Sherlock’s mouth.  
With some reluctance, he let go and crossed back to the table, hastily grabbing the last bit of toast from his plate and stuffing it in his mouth. “This is going to be one long work day,” he said, half-grinning and with slightly flushed cheeks, as he closed his bag. “I still can’t quite believe...” He briefly frowned and shook his head, beaming, while timidly avoiding eye-contact, until he stopped to look at Sherlock and said, “Is this real?”

Sherlock felt as if his chest might explode. God, John was gorgeous like this. Smitten. With _him_. How was that even possible? And amazingly, it made him look at least ten years younger.  
Sherlock looked shyly at the floor, cursing himself for blushing like a kid. Then again, John was blushing as well and it only added to his attractiveness. Good Lord.

When John approached him on his way towards the door, Sherlock grabbed him by the hips and looked him in the eye, declaring half-earnestly, “If it’s not, I can’t vouch for my behaviour when I find out.”

John’s smile broadened and he briefly pressed his lips to Sherlock’s once more. “ _This_ feels very real at least to me.”  
He lingered a few more seconds, then turned and left.

Sherlock didn’t move for a long while after that and just stood there vacantly watching the closed door. Even though his entire being was reeling, still trying to process the new situation, at the same time the excitement that was thrumming in his veins made him feel happier than he could remember ever having been.

When he finally snapped back into reality, he suddenly recalled the case and what needed to be done.  
He went over to the kitchen to pour himself some of the coffee John had made and sat at his desk, in the chair that was still vaguely warm from John’s body heat.

Sherlock took his phone and typed a text to Violet Smith.

\- - It is essential that Bob and Jack think that your uncle in South Africa has died. Please ensure to pass this piece of false information to either of them. It’s important. Add that you didn’t really know him and don’t want to talk about it. SH

He leaned back and drank his coffee, thinking about the next step.

Before his mug was finished, his phone beeped. Sherlock frowned at the screen.

\--Why? What will happen? Violet

He should have known she wouldn’t just go along with his request without having questions.  
Sherlock typed his reply with one hand, still cradling his cup in the other.

\--Nothing that you will notice, other than that you will most probably stop being stalked. I will explain later. Text me when you’ve done it. SH

Sherlock decided it was best to give the fake news some time to travel before he did anything else. It was important that the message reached both Bob and Jack before Sherlock went to see the goldsmith.  
Best to just sit and wait for the minute. He had other things on his mind anyway.

He rested his elbows on the table and carded his fingers through his hair.

 _John._  
 _John John John_...

Suddenly he could hear his father’s voice in his head. _Be careful what you wish for._

He huffed and fisted his hair in both hands.

What on earth was going to happen from this point? Were they actually in a _relationship_ now? Sherlock tried to wrap his mind around what that even meant. Among other things, relationships meant sex, of course. And he knew that sex was definitely important to John, who had continually been trying to get a leg over with all sorts of women the whole time they had lived together.  
There was no way around it.

Sherlock tried to focus on continuing to take regular, deep breaths as he thought about this specific subject, but he already felt the beginnings of panic rise from deep within. He’d managed to avoid really thinking about it until now, but it was hitting him doubly hard now that he couldn’t hide anymore from the fact that this was real; John had not pulled back in the morning. And it was quite obvious that he had expectations.

Sherlock pressed a hand over his mouth and stared blankly ahead.  
God, how in heaven’s name was he ever going to be a satisfactory partner for John?

He wasn’t a virgin, technically, although he wasn’t sure that one time counted. He had been much too young, and it wasn’t anything he had consented to. In reality, Sherlock was still haunted by the fact that he had been stupid enough to let it happen. He had tried and almost succeeded in deleting both his formerly favourite teacher and their little secret from his memory and never thought he’d ever want to do anything like that with anybody ever again. But strangely enough, with John he wanted to. He felt a helpless physical attraction to him, like iron ore to a magnet. It was very unnerving, but – weirdly – incredibly soothing at the same time. Could it be true, after all, that man cannot live without love, like all those imbecilic songs claimed?

But fantasising about it was one thing. Now that it came down to it, adrenalin seemed to be strangely clouding his ability to think. Nevertheless, he knew one thing beyond all doubt: he didn’t want to lose John. He had to ensure that he did everything it took to make John want to stay.

There was only one way. He needed to do research, and then practice. Since he’d managed to get to grips with a rather elaborate variety of skills in his life, he was confident he should be able to master this one.

He opened his laptop and started scouring the internet.

* * * * *

Five hours later, when he’d satisfied himself that he had all the information he needed (the number of forums about how to have gay sex had proven to be rather impressive), Sherlock started looking for mail order companies that didn’t look terribly dodgy. When he found a rather posh one of the kind he was looking for, the dildo department was only one click away.

His eyes briefly widened at the vast diversity of the collection that appeared on his screen.  
Another half hour after that, he had chosen and ordered a realistically sized but stylishly black one for speed-delivery tomorrow morning. There would likely not be much time.

He spent the rest of the afternoon looking for a more practically instructive kind of information sources. As he manoeuvred his way around paid porn sites, he managed to find a couple of videos featuring a short, blond man, whose lanky partner – who apparently loved dogs, judging by the pawprint tattoo on his shoulder – seemed to very much enjoy getting fucked by the blond in an immeasurably educational number of positions.

Even though Sherlock became rather desensitised after watching their goings on for over two hours – and tossing himself off twice in that time – he continued to watch in order to study positions, angle, rhythm and division of roles.

When he suddenly became aware of John’s footsteps on the stairs, he managed to quickly close the website before slamming his laptop shut and assuming a pensive position on the sofa that would hide his _n_ th erection.

All he could do was hope he would manage to postpone having to put his newly acquired – but still essentially incomplete – knowledge into practice until after tonight.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the good news is that the last two chapters (5 and 6) are finished and are being proofread by betas at the minute. I'm planning to post Ch.5 on Sunday or Monday and Ch.6 hopefully on New Year's Day!  
> Thanks for all the lovely comments. They give me the strength to see this through to the end. :D

John quietly chuckled to himself when he realised he was practically dancing his way to Marylebone tube station that morning, and he couldn’t help but smile at all the grumpy faces of the people around him.

_Sherlock felt the same._

_Sherlock felt the frigging same!_

He’d kissed him back and had pressed his body close to John’s. John still couldn’t quite bloody believe it.

God, the feeling of holding Sherlock, warm and real against his chest, and the way they had just stood there, breathing together with their arms around each other: it had been absolutely wonderful and slightly terrifying at the same time. But the best thing had been Sherlock’s joyous shyness and his flushed face with downcast eyes the next morning.  
John had to bite his lips to stop smiling like a fool at the memory.

He felt at least twenty years younger, and all his troubles concerning Mary seemed to have melted away in the warmth now filling his heart. For the first time in months, he had something to look forward to again.

At the same time, John couldn’t quite push away the doubts emerging in his thoughts – like little poisonous gas bubbles in a lake – about whether this was going to last. With Sherlock, you never knew how long something new was going to hold his attention; not to mention that John was wondering whether it would even be possible at all to have a serious relationship with a self-proclaimed sociopath. John had had so many relationships crash and burn for lesser reasons. Until yesterday, he hadn’t actually thought Sherlock capable of romantic feelings and although he had been proven wrong, it remained to be seen exactly to what extent Sherlock would be able – and happy – to maintain an actual relationship.

If that was even what they had now.

John was getting surer by the minute that it was definitely what he _wanted_ them to have, anyway.

God, his sister was going to laugh her head off.

At least he and Sherlock had already proven they could live together. John had had all the surprises there were to have – from heads in the fridge to indoor shooting exercises – although the thing with Sherlock was, of course, that he kept astonishing you in new ways all the time. But perhaps that was why John had fallen in love with him in the first place.  
At any rate, John could no longer claim that nothing ever happened to him. And in his case, that was definitely a good thing.

But still, one might rightfully wonder whether it was actually a good idea to move back in at this point. Wouldn’t it be wiser to first watch from a safe distance where this was going? For instance, John had literally no idea what sex with Sherlock was going to be like. He wasn’t even entirely sure what he wanted in that respect. Or whether Sherlock wanted sex at all. He’d always seemed a bit funny about the subject.

His attention snapped back to the present as the familiar computerised Underground voice announced his stop.

“Mind the gap between the train and the platform.”

He’d gotten off the tube at this very station hundreds of times before, but even this felt different now, somehow. As he headed towards the exit, he glanced around at his fellow commuters on their way to an almost infinite number of different jobs and wondered which of them were homophobes who would look down on him if they knew what was going on in his mind right now, which of them were gay or bi themselves, and which of them might even be in a similar position, on the threshold of a very different life with someone of the same sex. Or with a best friend. Or both, like himself.

He felt alone, but he knew he wasn’t really.

* * * * *

Only five more patients to go.

“Mr Merridew, please.”

Mr Merridew had been wondering whether it might be a good idea to get himself tested for STDs.

Always a treat, that one.

But while John was taking the tissue samples, a thought occurred to him. Would it be sensible to have himself tested as well?  
Usually that was the kind of thing you didn’t really think about until after having been together for a couple of months, but John figured that the four years he and Sherlock had known each other already counted as such, in this case. This wasn’t just a fling. This was either for good or it would become the largest cock-up of his life – and after Mary, that said something.

Nevertheless, he almost immediately concluded it was a bit too early to actually have himself tested just yet, seeing as his fantasies had barely gone further than imagining Sherlock naked. The idea of giving another man a blowjob for instance was... weird. Erotic and arousing, on one level, but still mainly weird. And anal intercourse, well... He didn’t quite want to think about that, and he couldn’t really imagine himself ever doing it. Or Sherlock.

Of course, now that he thought about it, he couldn’t stop imagining it. In the middle of a male patient’s STD check. This was not good.

 _Focus_. Only four more patients after this.

* * * * *

John hurried to the station to catch the 5.02 back to Marylebone and Baker Street. He’d texted Sherlock just before his last patient to ask whether he should get something to eat along the way, but Sherlock had replied that he had arranged for some Indian to be home-delivered.

The minute John could see 221B in the distance, a whole batch of butterflies seemed to take flight in his stomach. Still, he didn’t bother to try calming his nerves before he went in, especially if no longer denying your feelings meant it made you feel this young and light again.

Sherlock was in one of his meditative poses on the sofa but noticed John already before he’d even closed the door behind him.

The moment they smiled at each other – first just with their eyes and a second later with their entire faces – it was as if a bright ray of sunshine slashed right through John, making the butterflies frantically spread all over his limbs. Sherlock’s smile had a timid edge to it that John had very rarely seen before and which made it all the more endearing, causing John to soon look away with flushed cheeks.

It was just too much.

It would probably take a while to get used to the idea that each look, each smile between them now meant something else, and was laden with a new layer of emotion. After all this time, it was too amazing to fully take in yet.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

John scratched his eyebrow. “How was your day?” he asked.

“Good. Good,” Sherlock replied, then hid his lips inside his mouth.

“So... what have you been getting up to?” John said, sitting down rather awkwardly next to Sherlock on the sofa.  
Should he give him a kiss? It felt kind of weird not to, but the right moment for it seemed to already have passed, if it had ever been there.

“I didn’t get it up too much... er... I didn’t get up to much, I mean. I just watched some... telly.”  
Sherlock sat up rather stiffly, while apparently making an effort to sound breezy – without much success.

“Oh, has it been repaired?”  
John couldn’t remember how long it had been broken already. Sherlock never watched telly – unless he’d reached the point of boredom where the walls were in danger of getting shot at. Apparently it had not been a particularly good day.

“Erm, no. I watched on my laptop. Never mind.” He looked away at nothing in particular.

“Ah.”

Why was this conversation so awkward? It had never been this cumbersome between them before.  
John had the feeling the continents had shifted beneath him and he was standing on one leg, trying to find his balance.

He cleared his throat. “What did you watch?”

Sherlock coughed. “Oh, just some... documentaries about... er... pawprints of animals, and such.”  
His eyelids were fluttering wildly.

John had the distinct feeling he was missing something.  
“For a new case?” he asked.

“No. No, just perso-... er... _professional_ development, you know. Have to keep on the bottom of things.” Sherlock briefly closed his eyes. “On top. In order to be able to get to the bottom of things, I mean.” And on the same breath, “You know we should probably have dinner because it’s getting cold.”  
Sherlock quickly got up and disappeared into the kitchen, where John heard him open and close cupboards and drawers as if his life depended on it.

John frowned, wondering what had gotten Sherlock so worked up. Was he seriously that nervous about... _them_?  
Eventually, John strolled over into the kitchen to help set the table.

Once there were plates, forks and knives laid out, Sherlock looked around, slightly bewildered. “Have we got everything?”

John just stood and looked at him, smiling.  
“Sherlock? Come here.”

“Yes.”  
He sounded almost comically deadpan.

This man. The crime-fighting genius. Suddenly nothing more than a little lost puppy. John’s heart melted once again, as it had done for Sherlock a million times before, and he pulled him into a much-needed hug.

After an initially startled response, John could feel Sherlock relax into the embrace.

It was the most amazing feeling to suddenly be able to bury his face in Sherlock’s neck just like that and breathe him in. In some inexplicable way, it felt safe.  
“It’s all going to be fine,” John whispered. “Just fine.”

After holding each other like that for a while, John noticed Sherlock’s breathing had slowed down. “Now the food is really getting cold,” John jested. “Let’s eat, shall we?”

* * * * *

It was an evening full of shy smiles and occasional tentative touches; a quick kiss on Sherlock’s forehead as John handed him a cup of tea after dinner, a hand on John’s shoulder while they were doing the dishes – together, for once.

In a way, it was slightly unnerving to experience the monumental shift that had taken place between them. Rather than ignoring John or even forgetting he was there, as Sherlock usually did, he now seemed to keep a constant eye on him, checking that he was still there, still okay with this, still interested in him. John noticed this by the self-conscious way Sherlock kept flashing brief glances over to him, invariably ending with the beginnings of an almost invisible smile.  
It was strange and wonderful at the same time, and John was embarrassed to realise he was, in fact, guilty of doing the same thing himself.

For some reason, they didn’t kiss. They just sat and talked, loosely holding hands on the sofa with John’s head rested on Sherlock’s shoulder and Sherlock’s temple on John’s head.  
And it was just perfect.

They had waited years and there was no need to rush it now. Also, on some level, John was afraid to do something that would scare Sherlock off. He sensed the risk was there, somehow. But he was also revelling in this phase where everything was new and still mostly undiscovered, so he didn’t mind if it lasted for a bit. And maybe he was savouring the anticipation of more there was to come. Not that he wasn’t nervous.

He had no idea whether Sherlock had ever been intimate with another man (or with a woman, other than for a case, that is), although, judging by his funny behaviour at the beginning of the evening, he quite possibly hadn’t. But John was sure they would figure out a way to cross that bridge when they got there. And he had the impression that Sherlock wouldn’t mind taking the scenic route either.  
For now, it was more than enough just knowing that they felt the same about each other and no longer having to push away or hide those feelings. That alone made John feel as if he could fly.

When Sherlock shifted his position to reach for his phone when it chimed with a text alert, thereby robbing John of his headrest, John realised how drowsy he was. Time to go home. They didn’t actually live together yet, after all.

“Sherlock, I think I should get going,” he yawned, as Sherlock studied his phone. “Another early morning tomorrow.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, looking back up to John, his mouth a surprised little ‘o’. “You want to go... home?”

“Yeah, well, I’ve been in the same clothes for two days already and I wouldn’t want to chase my patients away by risking a third day,” he smirked.

A pointedly relaxed smile flickered across Sherlock’s face. “Of course. Yes.” He cleared his throat, casting one more glance at his phone before putting it away. “What time are you available tomorrow afternoon?” There was a casualness in his voice that betrayed the hidden excitement about a case beneath it. “I would like you to join me when I visit our goldsmith.”

John sat up a bit straighter on the sofa.  
“Well, I could try to see if I can have my shift end at two. Sarah owes me a favour.”

“Excellent.”

They hadn’t worked together on a case for quite a while and John could tell that the prospect ignited a little spark in Sherlock, as it did in himself.

“Apart from testing your theory, I would also like to plant some false information,” Sherlock continued. “Make this man think that Violet’s uncle in South Africa has died. He’s sure to mention it to his suppliers as soon as they come round. I already instructed Violet to tell them as well, but this way it will be more believable.”

John looked at Sherlock with a blank expression, not quite getting the point of this exercise.

With a subtly impatient eye-roll, Sherlock added, “If we manage to convince Jack that Violet’s uncle is already dead, he is bound to lose interest in Violet. Because once he and Bob think Violet knows she’s inherited a fortune, they will assume she will be a lot more cautious and never marry without a prenuptial agreement.”

That made sense, yes. Rather brilliant, actually.

“I see,” John said, not entirely successfully repressing a proud grin. “So you’re convinced that their deal included the condition ‘before he dies’?”

“Well, it must have either been agreed explicitly or they will simply lose interest in pursuing her. Or at least, Jack will.”

John noticed a corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirking up.

_Little Mr Matchmaker._

He shook his head in amusement.

“And while we’re there,” Sherlock went on, “I need you to help me find out on which days the guy gets his gold supplies from our South African duo.”

“Okay. Great. I’ll text to let you know what time Sarah is prepared to set me loose,” John grinned.

They did kiss good-bye: just a tender nibbling at each other’s lips, brushing and pressing them together as in slow motion. The minute John’s trousers threatened to become too tight, however, he pulled away. If he ever wanted to get home, he needed to leave right now.

When he stepped back, he saw Sherlock look at him with an unprecedented and barely concealed fondness that made John want to melt into a puddle on the spot.  
Instead, he just whispered “See you tomorrow.”

Sherlock only nodded and smiled one of his new shy smiles as John left.

* * * * *

They met at the newsagent’s across the road from the goldsmith, as agreed.

Even after all this time, John was still not used to seeing Sherlock in disguise, but today he didn’t bother to try to hide his smile.  
For a fraction of a second, he considered kissing the handsome, blond, bearded scholarly type smiling back at him, but while he wasn’t sure of their precise relationship status, he definitely thought that either way it would not be a good idea while they were on a case.

“Okay,” Sherlock’s voice said. “I’ll go in first, you follow three minutes later. I want you to walk up there before me though, and look at the shop window for a while, so that you can hear what he tells me from the beginning; the door is open, thanks to the warm weather. It might come in handy. I suggest your back-up story is that you are looking for an engagement ring. He’s got plenty of those in the shop window.”

John nodded, contemplating cracking a joke about being sure to make note of it if he saw an especially nice one. Instead, he decided to do that with a look, which did not escape Sherlock’s notice and elicited a half-heartedly hidden smile that sent wonderful shivers down John’s spine.

John cleared his throat while he tried to regain his neutral face. “Now?”

“When you’re ready.”

They looked at each other for a moment longer, exchanging a subtle glint in their eyes at the excitement of being on a case together. Although a lot of things felt different since last Tuesday, this didn’t.

John decided to quickly buy a newspaper so as not to look suspicious to the woman behind the counter and then stepped outside into the sunshine. He crossed the road and walked to the goldsmith’s workshop at a leisurely pace, stopping in front of the window. The jewellery on display was genuinely quite stunning, so it wasn’t hard to feign interest for a while.

From the corner of his eye he saw Sherlock enter the shop a minute later. John moved a little closer to the open door so that he would be able to hear the conversation inside.

“Afternoon, sir. How can I help you?”

“Hello there,” Sherlock said with faked cheer, although John knew that very few people would recognise it as such. He was quietly pleased to be one of them. “Well, you see, it’s my mother’s brooch,” Sherlock continued. “It’s been broken for years and she’s been meaning to get it repaired all this time, but never got round to it, you see. So I thought I would surprise her by having it fixed for her, you see.”

John was chewing his lips to suppress a giggle at Sherlock’s perfect imitation of a Very Nice But Slightly Scatterbrained Man. Even though John had often wished Sherlock were a bit more considerate, hearing him like this positively made John cringe, making him realise once more that he would in reality never want Sherlock to change a single nerve-ending in his brain. They fit perfectly together just as it was and John felt a fresh eruption of butterflies in his stomach just thinking about it.

After he heard them talk on for a bit about the specifics of the brooch and its mending, they switched to the subject of gold supply and John decided to go inside. Just over three minutes had passed, as Sherlock had predicted.

John stepped into the workshop, looking at the gold and silver craftsmanship on display and ignoring the two men, save for a short general nod in their direction.

“Some business, these gold mines in Africa, isn’t it?” Sherlock said.

“Yes, yes. Complicated business. So much money going round,” the greying shop owner answered.

“And all the politics, surrounding the mining and the value of gold and such.”

“Yes, yes. It’s a good thing I don’t have anything to do with that. I just make pretty things with the stuff, is all. But you do hear things now and then, of course. Lots of politics.”

John, meanwhile, was having a hard time pretending to be interested in rings, as there didn’t seem to be as many of them on display inside as there were in the window. He thought there was no reason, however, why he couldn’t be interested in pendants as well. The owner didn’t seem to be paying any attention to him anyway.

“Yes!” he heard Sherlock chime in enthusiastically. “You know, I actually happen to have heard that the owner of the two largest South African goldmines passed away the other day, but they’re trying to keep it quiet, at least for now, because of all the political fuss and power shifts that would ensue. Because there’s so many interests, you know?”

“You don’t say!”

“Honestly. There’s these two young fellows living next to me who worked for him in distribution logistics. They only recently moved here from South Africa.”

“Wait a minute, you don’t happen to mean Bob Carruthers and Jack Woodley, do you?” the goldsmith exclaimed.

“Don’t tell me you know them!” Sherlock cried out in response. “Such a small world, eh?”

“Well, they supplement my gold supply every week. Not safe to keep large quantities in the shop these days. Yeah, I know them alright,” the shop owner smiled.

“Oh, that Bob. He’s a funny one, isn’t he?” Sherlock sighed affectionately.

John was rather in awe of the way Sherlock had managed to steer the conversation onto the desired subject. He managed to hide his reaction by studying a particularly well-crafted silver pendant with two hares looking up at the moon.

“Don’t get me started,” the goldsmith said, fondly laughing. “He once came dashing into my shop, asking for a hiding place and not to tell his girlfriend he was there. And wearing this funny disguise, he was! Can you imagine?” He shook his head in amusement. “He even had a fake beard: it was hilarious!” He continued, on a slightly more serious tone, “Well, Bob admitted later that she was not really his girlfriend, but I had the distinct impression that he would have liked her to be; you know what I mean?” The goldsmith looked at Sherlock intently from under his eyebrows. Then, taking in a weary breath, he said, “But at the suggestion, Bob just said it was _complicated_ ”.

The old man grunted, meanwhile fumbling with the receipt he was about to write for the brooch, and went on to mention that Bob had also muttered something about protecting the girl, which hadn’t made any sense to him.

When he was done scribbling something down, he handed Sherlock the receipt and sighed. “Today’s youth,” he mumbled. “I can’t remember things always being this complicated when I was young.”

“It’s like the gold business, isn’t it?” Sherlock laughed feebly, ostentatiously dabbing his forehead. “Getting more complicated all the time.” His voice slightly started to fade at this. “Well, thanks for the brooch,” he muttered. “I think... bye.”  
The goldsmith, with raised eyebrows, started to say something about the collection date, when Sherlock turned around, wavering slightly on his feet as he clumsily made his way to the door, where he rather elegantly collapsed onto the floor.

John jumped into action, crying “Oh my goodness!” while randomly waving his arms about and grabbing his own face, before he stammered, “Should I call an ambulance? I will call an ambulance! You... you stay with him.”

The goldsmith turned out to be the sort of person who only became more calm when other people panicked (not unlike John himself, ironically), but he did seem genuinely worried and thankfully did not try to talk John out of calling 999. “The phone is behind the counter,” he pointed.

John pretended to misunderstand and dashed into the room behind the door that said ‘private’.  
Now it would be a matter of acting very quickly and efficiently. He spotted the shelves with daybooks straight away, but it took him several tries to find the latest one. He quickly leafed backwards to the last entries and stared at them intently, frantically trying to make sense of the guy’s handwriting, which frankly looked as if he kept his books in Hebrew.

As John gradually started to discern the words, he realised they were customer’s names. This was the bloody sales book and not the purchase book, dammit. He hastily put it back and was about to grab what was hopefully the right one from a higher shelf when he heard footsteps right on the other side of the door. Too late. He jumped to where the desk phone was and pretended to have just put it down, right in time.

“Are they on their way?” the goldsmith asked.

“Yes,” John managed briskly.

“Good, good. Listen, can you help me move him? I mean, we can’t let him lie in the middle of the doorway like that, can we?” The man looked slightly baffled.

John pressed his lips together. “Sure, you’re absolutely right. Let me help you.” He nodded and with gritted teeth – hidden behind an artificial smile – he stepped back into the shop.  
He felt a sudden pang at seeing Sherlock lie motionless on the floor and quickly tried to push away the images of that other time he’d seen him like that. The bastard was good at faking these things.

Just then, Sherlock started pretending to gradually come to and he blinked around in feigned surprise.

“Oh, thank god! Are you alright, sir?” John asked, in keeping with his previous exaggerated manner. He found it easier to act with a persona like that. “Can you sit?”  
John helped him up, focussing hard on making believe he didn’t know this man, which would have been quite a challenge even before anything had happened between them.

Sherlock, meanwhile, started to elaborately apologise for the inconvenience caused, stammering in a way that really shouldn’t have been that endearing.

“Do you want me to take you home?” John asked. “Where do you live?”

“Oh yes, that would be ever so kind of you,” Sherlock replied, somewhat subdued and still trembling a bit – rather convincingly, John thought – and he gave a fake address, which, knowing him, was probably the actual street where Bob and Jack lived.

“Are you sure?” the shopkeeper asked. “Should we cancel the ambulance, then?”

“Ambulance?” Sherlock giggled apprehensively, appearing embarrassed. “I’m fine, really. I just haven’t had time to eat all day, you see, is all. I’m so sorry to have caused you all this trouble. Really.”

John looked at him sternly and said, “You’re absolutely sure? You can walk?”

Sherlock got up and was all weary, reassuring smiles. “Yes, honestly. Just a glass of water perhaps, if you would be so kind,” he timidly said to the goldsmith.

“Oh yes, no problem at all,” the man replied, and hurried away to get it from the tap in the work area.

“I’ll cancel the ambulance, then,” John offered, glad for the opportunity to get back into the office and also to avoid embarrassment over someone else cancelling an ambulance that was never called.

He went into the back – again ignoring the attempts of the owner to point out there was also a phone on the counter – then quickly grabbed the handset from the desk to hold between his chin and shoulder in case the man unexpectedly came in again, and dove straight at the book of purchase. Meanwhile, he conducted a fake conversation aloud to cancel the ambulance.

He opened the daybook on the desk, struggling once more to understand what it said. Besides deciphering the shopkeeper’s writing, he also had to figure out the meaning of the codes and numbers in and above the various columns.

He was still in the process of doing just that, when the door swung open.

John froze.

In a flash of clarity, he stayed in exactly the same position and continued to talk into the phone, pretending to not see the book his gaze was fixed upon, and hoping that thereby the owner wouldn’t notice it lying opened on the desk either. “Yes, thank you so much. Sorry again.”

He put the phone down and looked at the goldsmith with a friendly smile. The man had apparently come in to get a pack of biscuits, to give Sherlock something to eat. John started to feel slightly bad about trying to deceive this kind man, even though all he was doing was getting, or rather failing to get, some rather innocent information.

Why exactly it was so important to Sherlock to know the delivery days and why he estimated this to be the best way to find out, frankly escaped him.

It hadn’t worked, that was for sure.

* * * * *

Once they were a few blocks away, Sherlock said, “You were right. As always, concerning people at least.” A fond smile lit up his face as he looked at John.

“Yeah, well. Unfortunately, I didn’t manage to get the dates. We’ll have to find another way.”

Sherlock did not change his pace. “Ah well, it was not that important. I just wanted you to have some fun.”

John stopped in his tracks and gaped at Sherlock. “Jesus Christ, Sherlock, and risk me getting arrested?”

“Well, the thrill is part of the fun, isn’t it?” Sherlock smirked, stopping to turn around toward John. “I wouldn’t want us to live boring domestic lives now that we’re...” He seemed lost for words for a second and then quickly averted his gaze.

“You’re afraid of us getting _bored_?” John huffed. This was unbelievable. The twat. “Do you want me to show you some exciting fun, right here, right now?” John said, ominously quiet and with a mischievous smirk. He didn’t bother to wait for a response and pressed his mouth to Sherlock’s in the middle of the pavement. That would teach him.

Sherlock didn’t flinch. In fact, his lips parted surprisingly pliantly beneath John’s and their tongues touched more elaborately than they had before, sending shockwaves of goosebumps down John’s back.

God, it felt good to do this. John didn’t care if the whole world saw that he wanted this man – as scary as that was. Of course, even if Greg Lestrade had turned the corner at that instant, he wouldn’t have realised who it was John was snogging, as the git was in disguise. Which, by the way, taught John that beards do indeed tickle, even fake ones.  
Nevertheless, he felt a fierce spike of adrenalin not only because of feeling Sherlock’s tongue prodding his mouth with such enthusiasm, but also because of shamelessly defying common decency by outright kissing a man in public.

After a short while, Sherlock broke off the kiss, seemingly in need of more oxygen than had been available with their mouths locked.  
He blinked a couple of times.  
“Well...”  
After a brief silence, he laughed, looking the other way. “Come on, let’s get something to eat.”

“Before we end up getting arrested for inappropriate behaviour in a public space, you mean?”

“Exactly.”

* * * * *

After dinner at a tiny bistro that Sherlock happened to know nearby – and where he also transformed back into his usual clean-shaven, dark-haired self in the loo, to the surprise of only one of the waiters (which in turn astounded John) – they strolled back towards Baker Street. It was a good half hour’s walk, but it was a lovely clear evening and they could both use some fresh air.

They didn’t talk much, and it took John some time to notice that Sherlock was being decidedly more distant than he had been at the restaurant. He seemed lost in thought and kept looking away, a permanent frown on his face. Could his mind still be on the case? John thought it was pretty much solved and finished now, but there was no telling what else Sherlock had in mind.

They walked in silence for a bit more, until it became overtly evident that Sherlock had retreated to some far corner of his Mind Palace and had stopped appreciating John’s company.

“Look, er... Sherlock. I think I’ll just go home, after all,” John started.

“Oh, yes, good,” Sherlock replied briskly, with a sudden smile. “I mean,” he added, slightly more hesitantly and with all but a stammer, “if... if that’s what you want, it’s fine, of course.”

John frowned. He still had to get used to the different tone in Sherlock’s voice since they’d kissed. His usual dismissiveness seemed to have been replaced by an unfamiliar insecurity. And it was a strange trait to see in Sherlock.

They said good-bye on the next street corner with a quick peck on the lips and John went home in a state of mild unease that he couldn’t quite place (this was Sherlock after all – what was he expecting?) and that he still hadn’t managed to shrug off by the time he opened his front door.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: with beautiful but very nsfw images by sherlockedart, used with their permission.
> 
> In case you are reading this in public, there is a 'safe' (illustrationless) version [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2903906).
> 
> EDIT: Crap, I've just realised that all the image links have changed and the illustrations have therefore become invisible on this website. I might fix them later, but for now, know that whenever it says "sherlockedart" in the middle of a sentence, that's a link to the image that was supposed to be in that spot! :D

It was bad enough that the bloody dildo hadn’t arrived the next day as it was supposed to, but the fact that the missed opportunity to practice had made Sherlock so nervous that he had scared John away and ended up alone in 221B that evening, made him feel rather miserable indeed.

Sherlock missed John from the minute their lips had stopped touching on the corner of Blandford Street, and it made his stomach clench that he had no clue as to when he would see him again. Irritable and tired, he dropped onto the sofa and closed his eyes. As soon as he shut out all visual stimuli, images from the pornos he’d seen the previous afternoon came drifting back into his mind; as they had at several – very inconvenient – moments during the day as well. But this time he didn’t try to push them away.

The skinny dark-haired boy with the dog-paw tattoo flat on his back with his knees drawn up high as the muscled blonde pushed into him. The same youth bent over a desk with the other man slowly entering him from behind, while he turned his head so that they could kiss at the same time. The boy with his back against a wall, his legs wrapped around his partner’s waist as he was being held tightly in place by the blonde, whose hips meanwhile rhythmically moved forward and back.

In the videos with these two, there had been smiles and a tenderness that had actually surprised Sherlock. Even though they were actors, a lot of it had seemed genuine and spontaneous to a certain extent. There had been no trace of discomfort in the lanky boy’s body language, and Sherlock had enjoyed watching the pair more than he’d thought he would.

Sherlock’s breathing became somewhat more shallow as he tried to picture himself and John in the various positions, wondering what John would be like during sex: whether he would be shy or assertive, gentle or dominant. Sherlock had felt John’s passion when they'd kissed, but he knew that John was not the type to push boundaries or be selfish. If Sherlock would just be able to relax enough, it had to be possible to manage penetration without too much difficulty. It _had_ to be.

He pictured John’s naked torso as he’d seen it during their summers as flatmates, on the occasions when John hadn’t bothered to put on a bathrobe coming out of the shower. Sherlock then pictured them both naked, embracing, John running his hands over Sherlock’s shoulders and down his body, lower and lower. He arched his back on the sofa and pressed a hand over his groin. But as soon as he imagined himself bending over a table with John behind him, all of a sudden he was fourteen again and back in the geography store room at St. James’s, tears of pain rolling down his cheeks.

Sherlock quickly opened his eyes and sat up straight. He ran a hand through his hair and went to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water.

The case. He still needed to work on the case.

He drank half the glass in one go and took a deep breath, mentally locking the door that had suddenly, though not entirely unexpectedly, flown wide open in the anticyclone that was now his mind.

_Focus._

_Violet Smith._

Sherlock shook his head to expel all other thoughts, like a dog ridding himself of unpleasant raindrops. It worked.

He inhaled deeply once more. 

He had already determined that Violet would likely not forgive Bob if she found out it was he who had been following her around, especially if she learnt the story behind it. Yet there were at least a dozen characteristics of their personalities that were perfectly compatible with each other. Since that number was much higher than for the average couple, it would be a pity if it didn’t work out between them just because Bob had initially had rather dubious motives to start dating her.

But Sherlock had one more plan up his sleeve to even further increase the chance of successfully getting rid of Jack, which was, after all, Violet’s primary concern.

Luckily, he knew a very posh restaurant whose owner owed him a favour.

He let out a long breath and switched on his computer.

Ten minutes later, he had successfully hacked Violet’s mailbox, using a trick he’d recently asked a programmer to teach him in exchange for verifying his alibi in a murder case. Then he typed an e-mail from her account to Bob.

\--Would you like to go out for dinner this Saturday at The Ledbury, around 8pm? Would love to see you again. xx

As soon as it was sent, he deleted the message from Violet’s ‘sent items’, so as not to leave any trace of his actions.  
Then he sent the exact same message from Bob’s account to Violet, also deleting it from his account subsequently.

After that, he waited. It was vital to intercept and delete the replies before Bob and Violet could read them themselves.

He sat staring blindly at the computer screen like a fisherman at his bobber. This was the only kind of doing nothing he could stand, and he allowed himself to let his thoughts stray as his eyes stayed fixed on both inboxes.

He tried to imagine John sitting behind him in his chair near the fireplace, reading a newspaper. Even though the silence was the same – save for an occasional turning of a page Sherlock had to add in his imagination – , there was a huge difference in John actually being there or not, as irrational as it seemed. Just as Sherlock hadn’t really needed him to accompany him to the goldsmith that afternoon, but everything was just so much more... _fun_ , with him there.

He made a sour face, still not used to allowing himself to admit he was susceptible to the concept of amusement.

_Every genius needs an audience._

Well, it was more than that, obviously.  
Whether John was being an appreciative listener to his being particularly brilliant or not, Sherlock just wanted John _close_. He _needed_ him at his side, either standing by to back him up with a gun during hazardous pursuits of criminals or just emanating his calm presence while sipping tea in his old chair in 221B. John had become as essential to Sherlock as oxygen, and infinitely more dear.

As ridiculous as Sherlock had always thought it to find one person the most beautiful and amazing in the world above all others, he was now finally reaching the point where he was giving up all resistance to these kinds of feelings.

 _As long as I don’t fuck this up_ , he told himself once more.  
_I have to do whatever is necessary to make sure I don’t fuck this up._

His back straightened as he saw a reply from Bob arrive in Violet’s mailbox.

\--Sounds great! Jack says it’s an incredibly posh place though... Maybe we should go to Negozio instead? It’s a lovely Italian restaurant down the road, slightly more affordable. :) Look forward to seeing you too. x

Sherlock typed out a reply as fast as lightning.

\--I know. Don’t worry, it’s on me. :) I thought it would be fun to have a proper fancy date for once. x

There. That should definitively convince Bob, and indirectly Jack, that there was no point going through with their scheme, as the ship had already sailed.

As soon as Sherlock had hit ‘send’, he quickly deleted both messages from Violet’s account.

Then he sat and waited again.

It was midnight before Violet’s reply finally arrived.

\--Oh, that would be lovely. See you then! x

That had gone smoothly. He hit ‘delete’ once more and sat back in his chair, content.

Tomorrow he would reserve two tables at The Ledbury for the day after.

* * * * *

The next morning, when Sherlock was in the middle of an experiment involving twenty-five dead mice and eighteen pounds of calcium oxide, the postman finally delivered the essential item for his other research. Or rather, practice.

Sherlock hastily took it out of the packaging, making certain that it matched the description, and then stashed it in the drawer of his bedside table, together with the lube he had ordered along with it. Then he went back to his mice.

* * * * *

Several hours later, he was going over the results of his experiment, sitting in his armchair with his eyes closed as he committed the observed facts to memory and stored them in the relevant sections of his Mind Palace.

It was not yet dark when Sherlock was torn from his reveries by the unexpected sound of John’s footsteps on the stairs. They sounded ridiculously energetic for the time of day, but then again, so did his own heart the minute he heard them.

_John._

He didn’t move or open his eyes just yet. He only hugged his knees a fraction tighter, with his chin still resting on top of them.

John had decided to come here again straight after work, in spite of Sherlock’s aloof behaviour the previous evening.  
Dammit, why hadn’t he spent his time on more pressing matters?  
Nevertheless, Sherlock was elated to see his... his... John. He smiled. _His John_. Whatever he now was to him, exactly.

Although the experiment had been a rather efficient form of distraction, it could never fill the gaping hole that was John’s absence.

A short knock. “Sherlock?”

“Come in.” His voice sounded funny, but he didn’t care. He stood up and walked over to where John was appearing from behind the door, and without any hesitation Sherlock fell straight into his arms before the man was even properly inside the flat. “John,” he breathed.  
He was not going to push him away or scare him off again, not if he could help it. If he was honest with himself (which he was now starting to be), he’d been wanting to hold John like this for years; and finally there was no reason anymore why he shouldn’t. Until now, John had been the only one with the guts to take the initiative, so now it was his turn.

He heard a soft chuckle in his ear in reply.

Suddenly, everything felt simple again. John was here and hugging him back. Soon, their mouths found each other and a minute later, they were passionately kissing, snogging properly for the first time and pressing their bodies together without restraint.

Sherlock dug one hand into John’s hair – with his other arm still wrapped tightly around John’s middle – while John clutched Sherlock’s jacket as if afraid he might otherwise disappear into thin air. With their mouths frantically exploring each other, Sherlock managed to push the door shut with one elbow and then let himself fall back against it, which John, correctly, took as an invitation to crowd close and push him against the wooden surface. The increased sensation of bodily contact this created, caused Sherlock to soon feel his erection strain against the inside of his trousers, and he couldn’t help grinding it against John for some relief. He could then feel John’s prick in a similar state, pressing back rock-hard against his groin.

All of a sudden, a million ants were crawling through his stomach. He couldn’t stand it anymore. Even though he kept being overcome by a physically sickening anxiety at the thought of actual intercourse, at the same time he wanted it so badly that it was driving him mad. It was not just that he wanted it to be gotten over with so that he could stop obsessing over it. It was just so good to feel John pressed this close to him, to sense John – his steadfast, down-to-earth John – being aroused by _him_ , to hear his fast breaths in his ear, longing and desperate, for _him_ , that it summoned the strangest sensation in Sherlock of wanting to be even closer than this. His tongue was already inside John’s mouth, their hands were all over each other, ensuring almost full-body contact and still, it was not enough.

“John, I… want you… inside me,” Sherlock stammered, between kisses.  
Sod his stupid plans to practise first.

“Christ,” John breathed, looking a bit startled. “Are you… Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he panted.

“God, Sherlock I don’t know, I’m honestly kind of afraid… you know, of hurting you. I wouldn’t want that.”

“It doesn’t matter. You shouldn’t worry about that.”

It took a few seconds for Sherlock to fully realise what John had actually just said.  
John was afraid of hurting him. Wonderful, wonderful John. Everything was going to be alright.  
He trailed John’s lips with his tongue, the lips that had just spoken those words. He then moved on to John’s jawline, planting kisses along it, just because he could. When he arrived at John’s earlobe, he softly kissed that, too, before going back to his mouth.

“Christ, Sherlock, I want you so badly, you’ve no idea, but--”

“Then come inside me,” Sherlock whispered, their foreheads touching.

John was gripping Sherlock’s shoulder blades tightly, fingers digging into his flesh, firm and real. “Jesus, Sherlock,” he mumbled, and then lunged in for another sloppy kiss. With his hands he seemed to try to hold Sherlock everywhere at once, restlessly caressing his torso and shoulders.

When the hands and mouth abruptly disappeared, Sherlock blinked his eyes open to see John hastily unbuttoning his chequered shirt, his fingers faintly trembling. “God, it’s suddenly hot in here, isn’t it?” John muttered with an apologetic grin. Sherlock only bit back a smile as he waited to see John’s bare chest.

When the buttons were all finally open, John impatiently shrugged off his shirt, then looked at Sherlock again.

But Sherlock’s eyes were drawn to John’s scar, which he had never seen up this close before. The scar that had brought John home, to him. Wasn’t it the strangest twist of fate that they wouldn’t be here if John hadn’t been shot in Afghanistan? Then again, almost the same went for his own gunshot wound, which had revealed Mary’s true nature and eliminated her from the equation.

Sherlock went still and leaned in to press a soft kiss to the star-shaped scar tissue on John’s shoulder, trying hard not to think of what could have happened if John's unit hadn’t managed to get him back to the base in time and he had been left to bleed for longer.  
He straightened back up and they looked at each other for a moment, suddenly serious. Through a miracle they were both still alive. Alive and together, blood rushing through their veins, now filled with raging testosterone and adrenalin.

Then something nakedly possessive flickered in John’s eyes. He put his hands on Sherlock’s hips and went in for another kiss, just tongues this time, with their lips hardly touching. In the mean time, his fingers that had been resting on Sherlock’s waist started pulling Sherlock’s shirt out of his trousers. He then slipped his hands underneath, his fingertips softly scraping over Sherlock’s skin.

The touch was electrifying, sending shuddering waves of goose bumps across Sherlock’s body. Sherlock let his head fall back against the door and John took the opportunity to lean in and run his tongue over his neck, eliciting a series of gasps and sighs from Sherlock’s open mouth, which were answered by John’s soft moans of contentment.

When John’s hands reached the small of Sherlock’s back, he pulled Sherlock more tightly towards him, grinding his cock into Sherlock’s thigh, apparently desperate for friction.  
“Is this really what you want?” he asked again. “Right now?”

“Yes.”

John looked at Sherlock hesitantly for an instant, as if collecting himself, then deliberately reached for the top button of Sherlock’s shirt and started unbuttoning it, slowly and carefully. His eyes flashed between Sherlock’s and the place where he was about to see newly exposed skin behind each button. When his eyes fell on the little circle that his ex-wife’s bullet had left, he briefly looked up at Sherlock with a blank stare that hid the depth of emotion beneath it.

[](http://shirleycarlton.tumblr.com/post/106433596811/sherlockh0rnyholmes-sherlockedart-kissing)

Sherlock quickly helped John get the shirt off him and threw it randomly across the room so they could focus on each other again. He then boldly grabbed John’s arse with one hand and pressed his lips to John’s again. John curved a hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck in response, kissing him back, more slowly and gently this time.

Sherlock revelled in the feeling of their stomachs touching skin to skin and pulled John even closer to him.  
The kiss slowed further until both their movements practically came to a halt and they stood almost motionless with their lips pressed together, eyes closed.

This was it. They were about to go to his bedroom and do it, Sherlock knew. He felt a strange calmness descend over him and he gently took hold of John’s hand. “Come on,” he whispered.

Sherlock led the way, repeatedly looking over his shoulder as if to check this was real. (Why did being in love mean you had to behave like a five-year-old again, he wondered?)

John looked back at Sherlock from under his brows with a somewhat apprehensive smile, his head hesitantly tilted downwards.

Strange as it seemed, seeing John’s nerves significantly quieted Sherlock’s own.

Once they were inside his room, Sherlock took the initiative to go in for another kiss while simultaneously undoing first John’s fly, and then his own. They stepped apart for a moment to take off trousers, shoes and socks, both breathing as if they’d just chased a murder suspect across London.

The following awkward moment, where they were standing there in just their pants, was quickly ended by John, who wrapped his arms around Sherlock and let his hands wander all over his back. Sherlock instinctively pressed his face into John’s neck, breathing in his scent, so as to inhale as many John Watson biomolecules as possible. He had always been intensely aware of the faint version of this smell lingering in the vicinity of his former flatmate and had longed to properly breathe it in at close range all these years. It was the nicest smell he could imagine on the planet, curiously calming and arousing at the same time. Not that his prick could get any harder at this particular moment.

He realised there was no point in delaying any longer.

Sherlock let his hands slide down towards John’s surprisingly bright red pants, then deftly hooked his thumbs in the waistband and tentatively pulled them down.

John was breathing shallowly, unmistakably nervous now, as he started pulling down Sherlock’s pants as well.

Obviously he’d never done anything like this with another man before either. Maybe he was worried that it wasn’t going to be as good as with a woman. Sherlock could only hope his preparations would prove to be enough in order for him not to disappoint John.

Without breaking eye contact, Sherlock let himself drop back onto the bed, so John could remove his underwear altogether from his legs. John then stepped out of his and crawled over Sherlock, one foot still on the floor. His cock was oddly hovering in mid-air somewhere above Sherlock’s crotch.

John briefly caught his lip between his teeth and looked down at Sherlock with an awed look. “Oh god, you are so goddamn beautiful, you know that?”

Something ardently tickled in Sherlock’s stomach.  
John’s eyes smiled and it was the prettiest thing Sherlock had ever seen.

“Come on, let’s scoot over to the middle of the bed,” John whispered. Which was a good idea, seeing as their legs were uncomfortably dangling off the edge.  
Once they had relocated to the centre, John bent down to softly kiss Sherlock’s chest, then moved up to his neck, by the end of which he finally ended up stretched out on top of Sherlock.

Feeling the weight of him had a strangely comforting effect, while at the same time, feeling John’s cock pressing against his thigh, so close to his own and without any fabric between them this time, made Sherlock’s heart pound in his chest.

While John continued nuzzling Sherlock’s neck, he slowly began to move his hips, subtly grinding them down onto Sherlock. He was not pushing, not asking anything, just languidly moving like the surf of the sea. It made Sherlock feel desired in a way he never had before. After a minute, he tentatively bucked back up against him, softly gasping at the sensation. This apparently encouraged John to grind down harder and the noises he was now making indicated he was slowly becoming desperate for more. His brows were furrowed and there was a tension in his muscles that betrayed the fact that he was struggling to remain in charge of his own body.

Sherlock had never seen John like this before, _needy_ and on the brink of losing control. It was a somewhat worrying but beautiful sight and it made Sherlock want to get to know more of this side of him that was now meant only for him.

“John?”

“Yes?”

“You can prepare me by inserting one finger, with an ample amount of lubricant, then two fingers.”

John stilled and swallowed.  
“Okay. Bedside table?”

Sherlock nodded.

When John opened the drawer, his face broke into a restrained smile. Dammit, he’d spotted the stupid dildo, of course, and could not miss the fact that it looked rather obviously new.

“So you’ve been practicing, huh?”  
He sounded as if he were merely playfully trying to avoid using the word ‘masturbating’.

Sherlock wasn’t sure how to respond.  
“I... er... had been planning to.”  
He quickly put a pillow under his bottom, infinitely grateful for the internet and its inexhaustible source of information.

“Wait. So you’ve never actually done this before?” John asked.

Sherlock blinked. “No.”

“Or with another person? Ever?”

“No.” No need to tell him about that just yet.

Sherlock felt his stomach turn to solid rock. Was John disappointed in him for his lack of experience? But he could learn, surely? He wanted this, _needed_ this, in order to be freed from the groove he had been stuck in for over two decades. And he felt sure that with John, he could.  
He desperately wanted to _prove_ that he could.

The room started to fade a bit and the skin in his face was tingling unpleasantly. Sherlock tried to focus on breathing normally, but didn’t even seem to manage this simplest of tasks.

Something in John’s demeanour suddenly changed. He looked at Sherlock with a concerned frown etched into his face. “Look, we don’t have to do this now. If you’d rather wait...”

Sherlock felt a sudden rise of panic. “No, John. Why would we _wait_ any longer? We’ve waited long enough. Don’t you... want this?”

John let his head hang down for a second.  
“Sherlock, I want you, all of you. I really, _really_ want to... get inside you, believe me. God, I can’t image a single thing that’s hotter,” he said, his voice slightly shaky. Then he exhaled slowly, steadying his breath. “But at the same time, if you didn’t want to do it, that would be _fine. Please_ don’t feel pressured. _Please_. Look at me. We don’t have to do this.”

They stared at each other intently for a second, until Sherlock’s gaze drifted off, confused.

Finally, John continued, “I’m personally not particularly comfortable with the idea of anything up my arse either. I totally understand. It’s all fine. I just... I love you.”

Sherlock’s eyes shot back up to John, who looked as if he’d just swallowed a bee. The shock on his face indicated that he probably hadn’t exactly meant to say what he just did. Not because it wasn’t true, but because it was, Sherlock realised.

Sherlock’s eyelids started to flutter uncontrollably. Another person had just told him he loved him. He couldn’t even remember his mother ever saying that to him.

He forgot to breathe for a few seconds as he let the words echo in his mind. John loved him. Sherlock wasn’t even sure what that meant, exactly. But once his brain stopped trying to wrap itself around this new piece of information, a relieved smile involuntarily started to spread over his face.

John was still looking a bit startled at what he’d just blurted out, apparently not knowing where to look, and flopped down next to him on the bed, avoiding Sherlock’s gaze.

Sherlock rolled onto his right side to face John and pulled him close, hugging him tightly. He was amazed at the sensation of full-body, skin-to-skin contact and it sent a ripple of pure delight through him.

“So you don’t want to do it?” Sherlock asked, unsure.

“No, not now,” John replied quietly into his neck. “Maybe later sometime, and only if you really want to, but not now.” He pulled back to look at Sherlock. “I think we were going a bit too far with our wanting to make up for lost time.” He smiled faintly.

Sherlock nodded, frowning.

After a short silence, John added softly, sounding almost as if there was the beginning of a lump in his throat, “Sherlock, in a relationship you should never do anything you’re uncomfortable with, you know; that’s not how it works.”  
And after another pause, “Well, except maybe things like attending social occasions you’d rather not go to, in which case I will simply drag you there by your ears.”

They both chuckled.

The silence that followed was no longer awkward.  
John put a hand on Sherlock’s chest, slowly tracing invisible patterns with his fingers. It felt oddly calming.  
Sherlock mirrored him, and they just stroked one another for some time, occasionally planting lazy kisses on the other’s neck or shoulder.

Sherlock felt a strange combination of disappointment and relief. He was disappointed mainly with himself, for being so nervous about something so trite, but very relieved that John actually seemed totally fine with not doing it, at least for now.

And he’d said he loved him.

After the initial alarm of hearing those words had subsided, a relaxation set in that bordered on drowsiness, causing him to belatedly realise that John had gotten up into a half-sitting position and was spreading his kisses out all over Sherlock’s torso.  
Sherlock had never had this level of attention paid to him before, and it was a mesmerising experience. After having covered the area between Sherlock’s nipples and his navel, leaving a subtle trail of cool damp patches on his skin, John continued to move lower, making Sherlock catch his breath. A moment later, John was lying on his side the other way round, now leaning on his right elbow: with his knees near Sherlock’s right shoulder, his head hovering near Sherlock’s half-hard prick.

_Oh god._

Sherlock swallowed.

_Was John actually going to...?_

Yes, he was.

“Er... Condom?” John whispered.

“No, it’s fine,” Sherlock managed. Thankfully, he’d had himself tested only a couple of months ago to eliminate any kind of contagion through needles that might have taken place when he’d been too doped to care during the foolish exercise he had undertaken last summer.

Sherlock let out an embarrassing noise when he felt a soft, warm tongue on his glans.  
John glanced at him with something of a mischievous smile, or perhaps even a triumphant one. Before Sherlock had time to think any more, John opened his mouth and took him in, making Sherlock’s brain short-circuit. He was vaguely aware of a variety of unfamiliar noises coming from his own throat and this time, when John looked at him, Sherlock was certain he saw an unabashedly victorious grin on the doctor’s flushed face.

Sherlock had had no idea that this was what it would feel like. John’s mouth was soft and warm, and with it he was doing things to him that he hadn’t known were possible; alternately licking, kissing and sucking different parts (and all of them) of his prick.

Very soon, his brain was on the verge of sensory overload. There was no room in his Mind Palace that could accommodate what he was experiencing. It was too wonderful. Too much. He needed something else to focus on, desperately needed to divert energy to another part of his brain and _do_ something. He urgently wanted to feel John, touch him, taste him, anything, everything. John’s groin was very near Sherlock’s head and Sherlock longed to do the same thing back at him, simultaneously, but John’s prick was just out of reach.

Of course, John was shorter than he.

With the very few brain cells that were still functioning, he realised that there was another erogenous zone that he could reach. He slung an arm around John’s bottom and pulled him close, ducking his head between John’s legs. This elicited a surprised grunt, followed by a strained gasp the minute Sherlock lightly bit John’s arse cheeks – after which he continued licking and kissing them, revelling in the feel of soft flesh that gave way so easily under the pressure of his mouth and of the little hairs that tickled his tongue.

With everything he did, he could feel a direct response on his own cock. When he planted soft kisses, John would tenderly run his tongue alongside his shaft. When Sherlock dragged his nose over the sensitive underside of John’s bum, he was rewarded with increased suction and some beautiful moans coming from deep within John’s throat.

Sherlock had read several accounts on rimming that had spiked his curiosity and he was now considering whether his inquisitiveness might outweigh his instinctive reluctance and hygiene concerns.  
In the 2.3 seconds he was pondering this question, John suddenly let out a surprised gasp. Sherlock hadn’t touched him, and it took him several milliseconds to realise it had been his breath. To double-check, he softly blew some air over John’s hole.

John gasped again, appreciatively.

This was interesting.

Sherlock decided to experiment a bit more, testing various variables, like flow speed and angle, turning John into more and more of an aroused mess as he went along.

[](http://shirleycarlton.tumblr.com/post/106435091551/thescienceofjohnlock-sherlockedart-just-drew)

Rimming could wait.  
Sex was turning out to be a much more varied and fascinating activity than he had anticipated, and nothing like the mindless routine he had always assumed it to be.

Meanwhile, his cock had become so hard under John’s mouth that it ached and Sherlock was starting to become rather desperate himself. An unfamiliar sensation, and he was not sure whether it was in fact unpleasant or not.

To make it worse, every time John gasped around Sherlock’s cock in response to Sherlock’s teasing breaths over his arse, the cooling effect of John’s breath on his wet prick almost made him come.

Then, in an apparent burst of decisiveness, John suddenly took him in deep and started sucking relentlessly hard, alternating with firm strokes. The world gradually began to fall out of focus as pleasure rose up from Sherlock’s groin and swirled through him in a swelling vortex. He let his head fall back hard onto the pillow and was only vaguely aware of his hips jerking and his semen dripping onto his stomach in little warm puddles.

Then there was only his own heavy breathing and nothing else.

His mind was beautifully empty, infinitely more so than after tossing himself off.

John.

John had done this to him, for him.

Sherlock dazedly looked up to see John timidly smiling back at him, still gently holding his prick, his hands dripping with cum.

Sherlock smiled and closed his eyes again.  
John was a miracle.

“John...”

“Yes?”

Sherlock briefly opened his eyes to see John had crawled back towards him and was now tentatively touching himself as he lay on his side next to Sherlock.

“That was...” Sherlock couldn’t quite find either the words or the energy to utter them, and just settled for a heavenly smile that came completely natural in the moment and that he was sure would convey the same meaning.

He could hear John tossing off faster now, and Sherlock slowly realised that the accompanying slick sound was John using Sherlock’s semen as lube, which ignited a surge of fresh arousal in him in spite of his spent state.  
He opened his eyes just in time to see John scrunch up his face and falter in his movements as he added more splashes to Sherlock’s torso and melted together existing ones.

Finished, John rested his forehead on the pillow next to Sherlock, his chest heaving.

Sherlock put a hand on his back and nudged him closer.

Eventually, they lay chest to chest, almost as if gluing themselves together with cum, Sherlock thought amusedly. The disappointment he had felt half an hour ago was gone completely and replaced by utter happiness (of a magnitude and intensity he hadn’t imagined possible a week ago).

His thoughts strayed back to that cosy evening only three nights previously, and his alcohol-induced remark that might have inadvertently – but thankfully – set things into motion.

John was apparently having similar thoughts, as he suddenly said, “So what was it that prevented us from telling each other how we felt?”

Sherlock pressed his lips together, contemplating. “Well, in my case I suppose it was fear of rejection,” he said softly, looking at John from the corner of his eye. “Despite all my deduction skills, I could never figure out how you felt about me. Ever since we met, I’ve considered that my greatest flaw.” He paused. “Perhaps I was blinded by fear. Fear of being rejected and then losing you.”

John hugged him a bit tighter, letting out a long breath. “Then we have more in common than we thought.”

* * * * *

Sherlock woke up because he was uncomfortably warm.

Before he opened his eyes, however, he remembered. The pillow he was resting on, was a living and breathing _John_. Or rather, John’s shoulder.  
After pushing away the duvet, he slung an arm around John’s chest and smiled blissfully.

After the revelation of sex turning out to be something that he could most definitely get used to, he now found that having John in his bed with him, fast asleep and looking so peaceful, was a whole new category of wonderful.

He watched John’s chest rise and fall for a while, then contentedly dozed off again.

When he woke up a second time, the bed was cold and empty. He sat up with a start, only to hear typical John Watson breakfast preparation noises coming from the kitchen.  
He fell back against the mattress and revelled in the prospect of an entire Saturday with John, and no plans other than a fancy dinner date tonight.

When the noises started to die down, he got out of bed and sauntered into the kitchen.

John was just sliding a fried egg onto his plate. When he saw Sherlock, he beamed at him, spatula in hand. “Good morning, handsome,” he said, apparently trying to sound casual. “Would you like some toast, or coffee? Or fried eggs, if you happen to have started liking those in my absence?” And with a cheeky grin, “Or if you reserve those for after-sex only?”

He must have been able to tell that Sherlock was only staring at him, obviously more than a little love-struck, and not really listening, for he added, “Or would you perhaps like a kiss for starters?”

Sherlock stepped closer and said, slightly dreamily, “Yes, in fact, I would very much like a kiss for starters.” Bending down, he gave John a short peck on the lips. “... and for main course...” – another peck – , “... _and_ for dessert.”

Then he helped himself.

His gravelly, only-just-awake voice had sounded even more seductive than he had intended it to, and he didn’t know if it was that or just John’s general state of infatuation, but either way, the toast and eggs were cold before the men returned their attention to breakfast.

* * * * *

Both of them came three times that day.

Sherlock gave his first blowjob – which only lasted two minutes, because John practically came the instant Sherlock touched him with his tongue, and climaxed for real as soon as he used all of his mouth and applied the lightest of suction.

Sherlock had loved the way John had become undone below him, moaning and whimpering as if he were in danger of dying of pleasure. It felt as if he suddenly had magical powers, being able to make John squirm under his touch like that.

Surrendering himself to John had felt strange and awkward at first (especially without doing anything back), but the way John had looked at him and had kept covering him with tender kisses – as if he’d never seen anything more precious in the world – had made him feel safe in a way he’d never experienced before.  
John had actually managed to make Sherlock come just with words once: whispering both sweet and filthy things into his ear while kissing his neck – and subtly pressing his bulge to Sherlock’s naked cock as he was straddling him, but otherwise not touching him.

The second time Sherlock sucked John off, he had lasted a bit longer and Sherlock had been able to at least practice this new skill a little.

Towards the end of the afternoon, when they were lazily lying on the sofa, limbs intertwined, John furtively crawled down and hooked his fingers in the waistband of Sherlock’s pyjama trousers again. Sherlock became hard within seconds, catching his breath when he felt John’s fingers on his bare hips, pulling down his pants. Without further ado, John took Sherlock’s cock into his mouth and, using his already expanding array of creative tongue techniques, soon made him come, grunting and screaming as dazzling fireworks went off in his head once more.

The silence in his head afterwards was quite possibly nearly as marvellous as all the rest of this was.

He felt, simply, happy. (And that word did not even make him want to vomit anymore.)

John was now half lying on top of him, one of his legs between Sherlock’s, and looking down fondly at him as the dwindling afternoon light conjured yellowish-grey shadows through the flat.

“What time is it?” Sherlock mumbled, still drowsy from his orgasm.

“Around six, I should think,” John answered.

“Hmm. We should get dressed.”

“Dressed,” John repeated flatly. “Because... you would like to properly rip off my clothes next time rather than just my T-shirt and pants?” He mock-frowned.

Sherlock couldn’t help a smile. “Well, that too, although that might be slightly inappropriate tonight. We’re going out.”

John raised his eyebrows.

“The case,” Sherlock elucidated. “I predict there will be some discord between Violet and Bob tonight a little after eight at The Ledbury. We need to be there in order to ensure a happy ending.” He got into a half-sitting position and nuzzled John’s neck, adding, with some innuendo, “I think we might just have time for a shower.”

“Hmm. If you’re asking me on a date to a fancy restaurant, as I understand is the case, you should ask me properly, though.”

Sherlock cleared his throat, schooling his face into a solemn look. “John, will you go out on a date with me?”

John pretended to think about that for a second, and answered, just before he burst out into giggles, “Let me just wash your cum out of my hair, and then yes, I would love to.”

* * * * *

The Ledbury indeed was the perfect setting for Sherlock’s set-up. It was modern, with stylish chandeliers and long curtains not quite covering ceiling-high mirrors – and, most importantly, obviously expensive.

The waiter led them to a table behind a divider with plants on it and re-appeared shortly thereafter with the wine list.

“So, how exactly do you know Violet and Bob will be here tonight?” John asked.

“Oh, I invited them. On behalf of each other. Neither of them can afford such a posh place, of course. Not yet, anyway.”

Just then, Sherlock spotted the two of them coming in. The waiter seated them at a table near the window, directly in Sherlock's line of view, as had been pre-arranged.

“Sherlock, what is your plan, exactly?” John sounded slightly worried. “Are you sure they are going to be... happy, with whatever you’ve got in store for them?”

“Oh yes, quite sure. In fact, I’m rather hoping they will come out of the weekend as contented as we are, as a result.”

John gave him an open-mouthed smirk and huffed, then shook his head. “You meddlesome busybody of a genius.”

Sherlock tore his eyes away from the couple to look at John. Did he disapprove? Or was he just joking? No, he was decidedly beaming and Sherlock bit his lips to hide a smile.  
He’d always loved it when John thought he was brilliant, but now that Sherlock knew how deep those feelings truly ran, it elicited a more profound response in him as well.

At that instant, however, his attention was drawn back to the table near the window. He couldn’t exactly hear the words, but Violet and Bob’s body language clearly indicated that the moment Sherlock had anticipated had arrived. They were bickering about who had invited whom.

With a quick grin in John’s direction, Sherlock slowly got up and casually walked over to their table.  
He heard Violet say, “But who invited me then, if you insist that you didn’t?”

“I did.”

“Mister Holmes!”

In a flash of a moment, Sherlock was reminded of another shocked couple in a similarly fancy restaurant, and he quickly pushed the memory away. John had forgiven him and all had turned out well. _Very_ well. His now-lover was sitting not twenty yards away from him and Sherlock could feel his soothing presence.

He took a short breath.

“I sent e-mails to both of you from the other’s account and intercepted the replies,” he explained with a friendly smile. “I figured you, Miss Smith, would be convinced that Bob does like you, which he really does, by the way, if he invited you to such a posh place. And I have my reasons to assume that thanks among other things to this dinner date, Bob’s friend Jack by now has made plans to move back to South Africa. Am I right?”

“Er, yes, as a matter of fact, he asked for a transfer back yesterday afternoon.” Bob was now eying Sherlock suspiciously. “Did you _threaten_ him?”

“I did no such thing, don’t worry,” Sherlock replied smoothly. Then, turning his attention back to Violet, “The main thing is that _you_ will no longer be followed around on the streets, which is why you came to me in the first place.” From the periphery of his vision, he noticed Bob’s eyes grow to twice their size.

“So it was Jack, after all?” Violet said.

Sherlock smiled at Bob without replying. Then, as he started to turn away, he said, “I will leave you two to enjoy the rest of your evening now. Order what you like, by the way; it’s on the house. Good-bye.”

He strolled back over to where John sat, leaving behind an astonished couple.

“You,” John said, hiding a wide grin by looking down as he shook his head. “I think this might warrant champagne, don’t you?”

Sherlock tried not to smile like a fool at this, then abandoned the attempt and raised his hand to summon the waiter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hoping to post the final chapter this Thursday at the latest (but of course I'm actually secretly aiming for finishing before the end of year, which would at least mean I wrote and finished the whole damn thing within 2014. :D But I don't want to make risky promises, LOL.)
> 
> By the way, I am already thinking about a sequel...


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter also contains two wonderful but (in one case) very _nsfw_ illustrations by Sherlockedart (used with their permission).
> 
> In case you are reading this in public, there is a 'safe' (illustrationless) version [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3069035).

The first thing John did after their weekend in heaven was have himself tested. It had been a completely stupid and irresponsible thing not to use a condom when he’d given head, since he was perfectly aware that both herpes and gonorrhoea could easily be passed from mouth to genitals. He was a goddamn _doctor_ , for fuck’s sake, and he would not readily forgive himself for putting Sherlock’s health at risk. At least he finally understood the spur-of-the-moment thing.

God, it had been amazing.

John had always wondered what it would be like to give a blowjob – although not in the sense that he’d ever actually _wanted_ to before. It was just one of those things that he’d sometimes asked himself while undergoing it: what it would feel like to be the active participant.

And well, now he knew.

It had felt extremely liberating, somehow.

He’d had the extraordinary sensation of knowing almost exactly what to do, without the usual apprehension of perhaps getting it wrong, as he had often experienced during sex with women. And then Sherlock had managed to, well... press some buttons in one of his hitherto undiscovered erogenous zones, actually making John consider things he had never been keen on thinking about before – which oddly had been kind of freeing as well in its own way.

All he could do was hope that this David bastard with whom Mary had cheated on him – obviously unprotected as she had managed to get pregnant – wasn’t the type to collect body fluid contagions from across London. Anyway, he would soon find out.  
(Why he had been stupid enough not to have himself tested as soon as he’d found out the baby was not his, was beyond him. To be fair however, he _had_ had a lot on his mind at that moment.)

While he had the most wonderful memories of their first night together, he did frequently think back in bewilderment about Sherlock’s initial suggestion to actually shag, and John was still rather puzzled as to why Sherlock had insisted when he was so obviously uncomfortable about it. But in the end they’d had amazing sex anyway without penetration, and ever since, John felt as if he was floating a foot above the ground.

He was Sherlock’s now.

Sherlock was his.

John had never felt so possessive of someone before. But maybe it was because of having seen Sherlock, who was always so very composed in this respect, become completely undone beneath him (and above him, alongside him; frankly in every thinkable position it was technically possible to give a hand- or blowjob in): it was simply the most exquisite thing in the world to see this genius being reduced to incoherent moans and whimpers, surrendering himself completely to John.  
And of course it took a bloody genius like Sherlock to learn how to give the most amazing frigging blowjobs John had ever had, within _days_ of giving his first.

If John had been unsure about the whole sex-with-Sherlock thing, he had been wrong. It was without any doubt whatsoever the best sex ever. Who needed tits or pussy when you had, well... _Sherlock_. (Not to mention Sherlock’s _mouth_.)

John especially loved how sometimes, out of the blue and without saying a word, Sherlock would fix him with his intense gaze from across the room, stroll over and start kissing John’s neck, groping his back – his hands all over him – as if making up for all those years of distance between them.

Sherlock was in fact much needier than John had ever expected, and much more physical as well – once he’d gotten past his initial inhibitions. His advances sometimes practically bordered on sluttish behaviour, which made John smile inwardly. (He definitely wasn’t complaining.)  
One of the things was that Sherlock seemed to have no shame. John had always known that, of course, but it had acquired a whole new dimension with the changed nature of their relationship. Sherlock would simply drop to his knees in front of John in the middle of the kitchen or living room and unfasten John’s trousers, regardless of whether the curtains were open or closed. Thank god the flat wasn’t on the ground floor.

John had never felt so _wanted_ in his life.

To John’s surprise, Sherlock even turned out to be a tiny bit prone to sentiment. For instance, when they would kiss, he would sometimes take the chain with dog tags from around John’s neck and pull it over their heads until it was around his own neck. He did this especially when John was a bit gloomy, mulling over his army days – as if he wanted to take away John’s burden.

And it helped, God, it really did. John hadn’t known he was so susceptible to these kinds of affectionate gestures himself.

And while he had never been one for cuddling and fluff, he found that with Sherlock, what he loved possibly as much as the sex, was just lazily lying entangled on the sofa together, studying the hairs on the other’s neck or the curves of the other’s auricle, or simply feeling each other’s warmth and listening to each other’s breathing. Just being _together_.

One spring afternoon, two weeks into their relationship, when John had had an early shift, they were doing just that when they heard a brusque knock on the door. Since Sherlock had instructed Mrs Hudson not to let in any clients, with this narrowed-down choice it was quite easy even for John to deduce it must be Lestrade.  
Sherlock and John looked at each other, and instantly both knew there was no reason to quickly sit up and pretend they hadn’t been snuggling. They yelled ‘yes!’ before unhurriedly starting to disentangle their limbs.  
This approach would at least save them the trouble of having to _tell_ him.

The look on Greg’s face in the doorway as John was appearing from below Sherlock on the sofa was rather priceless. His open-mouthed shock, however, quickly morphed into the widest smile they’d ever seen on his face and they couldn’t help but grin sheepishly back at him.

“Finally!” Lestrade exclaimed, eyes wide. “After _years_ of exchanging smouldering looks, they _finally_ bloody got together!” And then, slightly exasperated, “To be honest, I’d almost given up hope of ever seeing the bloody day, I gotta tell you.”

The horrible realisation then dawned on John that all the people who had been ‘talking’ all this time would now righteously gloat about having been right from the beginning. But then again, it was a small price to pay for what they had now. On top of which, it was actually quite funny, in spite of the bitter edge of irony that everybody had seen what they had both failed to acknowledge all those years.

John smiled in spite of himself, and for one ridiculous moment, Greg seemed about to shake their hands to congratulate them; then, realising this would probably be a bit of an odd thing to do, he settled for shaking just his own head in disbelief, barely able to contain his joy.  
Greg then turned to Sherlock, who was now sitting up respectably on the sofa next to John, and he frowned, incredulous. “Wait, are you _really_ Sherlock Holmes, because in all honesty, you don’t look anything like him!” Then at John, “Are you _sure_ this is not some lost cousin? This man is positively _beaming_ in a way that practically gives off light!”

Lestrade’s reaction was slowly threatening to become even more embarrassing than Mrs Hudson’s, who had been harassing them with her smiles and winks and extra food ever since she had caught them kissing in the hallway.

But despite all the awkwardness, John only had to look at Sherlock to see that Greg was right. He was radiant and John probably looked similar himself – although seeing him like that was probably less of a shock to outsiders.

For the following few moments, Greg just stood there gaping at the two of them, seeming to have completely forgotten why he had come to Baker Street in the first place.

This was all rather amusing.

“Would you perhaps like some tea, mate?” John asked, putting both hands on his knees to get up.

“Oh, yeah, great, that would be lovely, thanks,” Greg replied, a little dreamily.

As John walked over to the kitchen, he could exactly picture the averted looks in the silence that stretched out between the two detectives and he had to suppress a snigger.

When he came back with three filled teacups, Greg cleared his throat. “Well, er, now that I’ve gotten over the initial shock of this unexpected development – well, I say ‘unexpected’ but as I said, we were all really past hope, to be more accurate...” He quickly swallowed away another grin that threatened to take over his face again. “Anyway – I’ve remembered what I came here for.”  
He took a few sips of his tea. “Since I happened to be in the neighbourhood, I thought I’d do a young lady a favour. There is this girl in my yoga class--”

“Yoga class?” The look on Sherlock’s face was a precious mix of abhorrence and amusement.

“Yeah, works wonders against stress, you know,” Greg said, with only the slightest hint of defiance. “Anyway, she’s been pestering me for days, ever since she found out I knew you, asking me to get this message to you. Apparently, Mrs Hudson wouldn’t let her in and you weren’t answering your phone.” One corner of his mouth quirked up as he added, conspiratorially, “I now see why.”

Something of a worried frown appeared on Sherlock’s face. John could see him mentally heading off in completely the wrong direction in his effort to deduce what Violet wanted to tell him, and smiled.

“But she was adamant about this,” Greg continued, between sips of tea. “She wanted to thank you. She said, quote, ‘her life was now perfect and she was even back in touch with her uncle’. Whatever that means; I’m sure you’ll know.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows had shot up and a faint smile started to play around his lips as he stared blankly ahead.

John couldn’t tear his gaze away from his lover. The brilliant git’s plan had worked perfectly from beginning to end.

Lestrade finished his teacup and heaved a sigh. “Well, that’s my duty done for the day. Not much else on at the moment, I’m afraid.”  
As he got up, it became clear that the yoga exercises hadn’t been agreeing with him altogether.  
“I’ll just leave you to it then.” He briefly shot them a cheeky glance, then disappeared through the door.

* * * * *

That evening, after an early supper, as Sherlock was putting the leftovers in the fridge, John walked up to him and hugged him from behind. “I think _someone_ deserves some special attention tonight,” he said quietly into Sherlock’s ear.

“You think so?” Sherlock raised an amused eyebrow at the man behind him, as he shut the fridge door. “And what did I do yesterday, or the day before, or the day before that, to deserve all the _special attention_ I received then, I wonder?” he teased.

“Just being your usual brilliant self, I suppose,” John said, trying to make it sound casual, as he gently turned Sherlock around to face him.

They briefly pressed their lips together.

“And by the way,” John whispered, “in case you feel like reciprocating, you no longer need to use a condom on me. I just got an e-mail with the lab results.”

Sherlock hummed appreciatively.

Should he apologise for having put Sherlock at risk all this time regardless? After the first time, it hadn’t really seemed to matter anymore. At least John had warned Sherlock to use a condom on _him_ , to eliminate the risk of the rest of the plethora of possible diseases spreading.

But maybe some things were better left unsaid. They had gotten off scot-free anyway.

Sherlock started switching off the lights and headed for the bedroom. John put the plates in the sink and followed.

While they slowly undressed each other, Sherlock purred seductively into John’s neck, “Although I can’t wait to taste and feel you for real, I want to do something else first.” He threw John’s last piece of clothing onto a chair and ran his hands playfully over John’s bare chest. “I’ve been practising, John. Do you want to see?” He suddenly seemed to have turned into a flirtatious teenager, slightly shy and proud at the same time. “I’ve been wanting to show you,” he added in a barely audible whisper.

John frowned. “Practising... what?”

“Penetration,” Sherlock replied, managing to actually make it sound sexy.

John widened his eyes, not fully comprehending. His frown stayed put.

“With the dildo,” Sherlock whispered into his ear, clarifying, as he gently pulled John towards the bed. He tumbled backwards onto the mattress, taking John with him, at which both let out a giggly grunt. “So, do you want to see?”

John scrambled off of Sherlock. “Sherlock, are you sure this is--?”

Sherlock sat up to silence him with a kiss.  
“I want this,” he assured him.

“Alright.” John swallowed, not sure what to think. He watched as Sherlock took a tube of lubricant from inside the bedside table and smeared some of it onto his fingers. After stuffing a cushion under his bum with his other hand, Sherlock pulled up his knees, letting his legs fall open, and just like that, started circling his arse with his wet middle finger.

John’s breath caught in his throat. The sight of this was... intoxicating.  
The lube glistened in the faint light of the bedside lamp as Sherlock switched to counter-clockwise circles and back – obviously enjoying the sensation, seeing as his eyes were sensually half-closed and his breathing was becoming increasingly heavy.  
When Sherlock slowly pushed his finger inside, John had to make an effort not to gasp.

Their eyes met for a brief moment, and John quickly mirrored Sherlock’s ‘It’s Christmas’ expression.

Strange things were happening in John’s stomach when Sherlock started to finger himself in earnest. Sherlock was so uncommonly beautiful, lying there on his back with his gorgeous long legs spread wide and this one incredible finger elegantly moving in and out of him while subtle noises of satisfaction escaped his throat.

John wasn’t certain he was entirely fit to merely be an objective observer here. “Can I... touch your cock?” he asked breathlessly.

“By all means,” Sherlock panted with a slight smirk.

John carefully kneeled between Sherlock’s legs and started showering his cock with attention in the form of gentle strokes and kisses. Soon, Sherlock slipped in a second finger. Truth be told, John was having a hard time concentrating on what he was doing with what was happening just below him. And frustrating as it was, he couldn’t tell if Sherlock’s soft moans were because of _him_ or because of Sherlock’s own fingers.

In the following minutes, Sherlock’s face was becoming more and more flushed, he repeatedly licked his lips and incredibly kept tilting his hips as if trying to reach even deeper.

John was becoming rather desperate for some stimulation himself, but this was not about him; so he resolved to simply put his own needs on hold for now.

After a while, Sherlock withdrew his hand to lube up the dildo.

John sat back to give him some space and watched with restrained heavy breathing as Sherlock positioned the dildo and started to slowly push it inside.

Every few seconds, Sherlock stopped, sometimes pulling out a little, then pushing back in.

John was barely holding it together by this point and in his head started compulsively reciting the only Shakespeare sonnet he knew (once learnt by heart for some silly contest in his uni days); anything to keep his vital functions within normal parameters.  
He’d never been that fixated on penetration, but for some reason, seeing what Sherlock was doing with that piece of silicone was embarrassingly arousing.

Sherlock lifted his head to look at John for a moment and bit his lip in a radiant smile, before dropping his head back on the pillow with a thud.

John smiled back, still somewhat incredulous, and remained still as a statue, afraid to break the spell.

Sherlock suddenly seemed an entirely different person, the way he was lying there, taking in the black dildo: unafraid to show himself, to be vulnerable. At the same time, there was something coy and almost girlish about him that made John want to devour him on the spot.

Next, Sherlock let the sex toy slide all the way out, only to push it back in again. Slowly, but impressively deep.

John pressed his lips together, trying hard not to overly display his arousal. This could be him. This could be him, sliding in and out of Sherlock.

Just then, Sherlock’s voice broke the silence. “I think I’m done practising, John,” he breathed, decidedly flirtatious now. “Would you like to have a go?”

John forgot to breathe for a few moments and looked at Sherlock with what he hoped was not too much eagerness.  
“Are you sure?” he rasped.

“Yes.”

There was something desperate about Sherlock, something John had never seen in him before. Almost pleading, submissive. And it was breathtakingly beautiful.

“Are you really sure?”

“Yes, I told you. Now would you or wouldn’t you?”

John’s cock had become almost painfully hard and was awkwardly leaking precum. He had a hard time keeping his voice steady as he replied, “Oh, Jesus, Sherlock, do you even have to ask?”

He wanted to kiss Sherlock, hold him, tell him he loved him – but he just sat there stupidly on his knees, frozen, his whole body as stiff as his prick.

Sherlock pressed his lips together in a smile. He put away the dildo and took the lube, applying an ample amount to John’s length, meanwhile stroking away some of his tension.

John let his head fall back, looking at the ceiling for guidance – as if to be reminded which side of the world was up and which was down – and took a couple of deep breaths.

When Sherlock was done, he gestured for John to sit between his legs again.

John’s heart was hammering in his chest as if it were trying to break free. As much as he wanted this, it scared the shit out of him all the same. He so badly wanted to get this right.  
He looked at Sherlock with an earnest frown. “Promise to tell me if it hurts, or if you just want me out, okay? Just tell me.”

Sherlock nodded. “I’ll be fine.”

“Promise,” John insisted firmly.

Sherlock seemed about to roll his eyes, but his expression halted in mild confusion.

“Listen,” John said flatly, “I won’t be able to enjoy this if I’m not absolutely sure that it’s not hurting you and the only way to be certain is if you promise to _tell_ me if it does.”

There was a short silence during which Sherlock looked at him with the most sincere and open expression John had ever seen on his face.  
“Okay, I promise.”

John leaned down to seal the promise with a kiss, gently caressing Sherlock’s tongue with his own in a swirling movement. A wonderful giddiness surged from deep within John’s insides, swelling throughout his body, as it hit him he was only moments away from being _inside_ Sherlock’s body. He still couldn’t believe that Sherlock was letting him do this. John was very well aware that it could potentially be extremely painful if Sherlock wasn’t completely relaxed.

With their mouths still pressed together, Sherlock pulled up his knees towards his shoulders and wrapped his legs around John’s back, provoking a feeling of wondrous inevitability. Then he tentatively reached between them to take John’s cock in one hand and guide it to his arse. First, he wriggled John’s glans around a bit between his arse cheeks, at which John couldn’t help but let out a blissful moan. When Sherlock stopped moving and held John securely in one place, coaxing him to start pushing in, John carefully did so – as slowly as he could muster. He let out a stifled noise through his nose as he felt Sherlock’s arse hole gradually open around him.

[](http://shirleycarlton.tumblr.com/post/106700322051/this-is-the-third-out-of-four-amazing-images-that)

“Oh god, Sherlock…” John’s breath hitched with every syllable.

Then he noticed Sherlock was holding his breath.  
“You okay?”

“Yes. This. Is. Amazing,” Sherlock stammered.  
Although he looked apprehensive, there was no trace of discomfort in his expression. It was more like awe.

John very slowly pushed in a bit more, then stopped again, until Sherlock nodded that it was okay to go deeper. Once he was past the first sphincter, he slid in so easily it made him blink.

John was sure he was in heaven: to see Sherlock beneath him, limp with abandon and preciously smiling with his eyes shut, his legs resting on John’s back, as John’s cock slowly sank into that beautiful, lean body. John was practically gasping for air. And when Sherlock briefly opened his eyes and looked up at him as if John were the only thing that would ever matter to him in the world, John thought he might cry for joy. The intimacy of it all was mind-blowing.

He gently pressed a soft kiss to Sherlock’s lips.  
“Is this still okay?” he whispered.

“Unequivocally, yeah.”

They drowned in each other’s gaze for a while, amazed at what they were doing.

When he was all the way inside, John started pulling out and pushing back in very carefully, closely monitoring every response from Sherlock, still afraid to hurt him or do something wrong. At the same time, the feeling of Sherlock’s tightness was so wonderful and overwhelming that he was afraid to lose control. But he ardently wanted this to be perfect for Sherlock. He wanted to do everything necessary to make Sherlock never want to leave him.

Sherlock gave a relieved huff, looking at John with an eager expression, as if he had just conducted an especially successful experiment. Who knew, maybe that was what this was to him. At least this was the kind of adventurousness John would not soon complain about.

John deliberately kept moving in a gentle slow-motion, taking his time to plant kisses wherever he could reach; making love to Sherlock as he never had to anyone before.

“Christ, Sherlock, you are the best thing that ever happened to me,” he whispered urgently. “And that was before tonight. Now... you’re just off the scale. Oh _God_.”

Sherlock writhed in the sheets like a content cat, wallowing in the compliment.

Once they had found a comfortable routine, John subtly tried to shift the angle so as to aim for Sherlock’s prostate. It took a while before he found the exact right position, but when he succeeded, he knew it. Sherlock let out a sudden whine, the most beautiful sound in the world, followed by a bellowing “God, John, yes!” He was soon begging John to never stop, and although John was positively beaming with pride and pleasure, he was pretty sure he was going to disappoint Sherlock very soon in that respect. He was not going to last much longer.

It took every ounce of effort in his bones to control his thrusts, not to go too deep and too fast. With all his might, he focused on making slow, fluid motions.

“God, we definitely have to try this the other way round some day,” John panted. “This feels so amazing. I want you to feel this, too.” He meant it.

“Same here,” Sherlock breathed, eyes wide. Then he grabbed John’s bottom and pulled him even deeper inside, his fingers digging almost painfully into John’s flesh.  
“Oh John...” he groaned breathlessly.

John tried to get hold of Sherlock’s cock to stroke him, but that turned out to be altogether a bit too ambitious: to his own frustration he couldn’t maintain the same angle and rhythm while leaning only on one arm. And he was close now, so very close. He could already feel the beginnings of a dizzying whirl gradually building up inside, until it suddenly over-flowed his being and erased everything around him, annihilating along with it any reluctance to cry out an elaborate string of primordial syllables that meant nothing and everything at the same time.

His shoulders were heaving as his movements slowly stuttered to a halt, a wonderful emptiness stretching out inside him with room for just one thought: _Sherlock_.

When he opened his eyes, Sherlock was looking at him with a curious expression, as if he was cataloguing new data. John didn’t care; he’d just had one of the best bloody orgasms of his life.  
He bonelessly collapsed on top of Sherlock, resting his forehead on Sherlock’s shoulder as he tried to wrap his mind around what they had just done and how utterly glorious it had been.

John concluded that no one could ever be happier than this. No one.  
He half lifted himself to look at Sherlock.

“Don’t get out yet.” Sherlock wriggled his hand between them. “I want to come with you inside me.”

Sherlock needed surprisingly few strokes before his semen spurted against John’s chest. John had seen him come quite a number of times by now, but nothing like this before. The intensity with which he knitted his brows together, wrinkling his forehead and grunting out John’s name, sent a beautiful chill down John’s spine. (Making John awkwardly slip out of him in the process.)

Sherlock had truly wanted this, _needed_ this, and John felt silly for having been afraid to do it.  
Now that they had, it had definitely added a new layer to their relationship. John felt sure he wouldn’t see Sherlock the same way after tonight and his feelings for him had impossibly intensified because of it.

When Sherlock opened his eyes again, John pressed a soft kiss to his jaw.  
“Wow, we actually did it,” he whispered.

Sherlock let out an uncharacteristic but genuine giggle and there was a kind of relief in his eyes that John couldn’t quite place.

John carefully shifted off of Sherlock, lying down on his side, while deliberately remaining pressed close to his lover.

As John put his arm around him, still dazzled at what had just happened, he was suddenly overcome by a fierce feeling of protectiveness, and he held Sherlock with the same reverence and tenderness he would a rare butterfly, unable to take his eyes off him.

Sherlock’s capacity to astonish had just reached a whole new level.

John never let go of Sherlock for one second that night.

* * * * *

John couldn’t remember the last time he had slept this soundly.

[](http://shirleycarlton.tumblr.com/post/106700639866/this-is-the-last-out-of-four-amazing-images-that)

When he woke up the next morning, his arm still on Sherlock’s chest, he gratefully drank in the sight of Sherlock peacefully sleeping a hair’s breadth away from him. He smiled at the thought that he would likely not soon get used to this kind of view. Then he closed his eyes again, not wanting to wake Sherlock just yet.

He sleepily thought back to the previous night and the way Sherlock had looked up at him with delighted serenity and hooded eyes, just before John had emptied himself into him.

Within seconds, his cock was hard again, eager to repeat the exercise.  
John hugged Sherlock a fraction tighter, desperately trying not to grind into his thigh. He only wriggled his hips a bit to accommodate his erection, but it woke Sherlock up all the same.

“Morning, handsome,” John whispered.

Sleepy smiles.

They languidly nuzzled each other’s necks, hands sliding under T-shirts, and mouths finding yet new spots to plant kisses.

Sherlock ended up sprawled on top of John, and then paused.  
“John, is this... will it always be like this?”

“I certainly hope so,” John smiled.

Sherlock stilled, looking at John with an uncertain expression. “So this is not just a fling, or – I don’t know – some phase we’re going through? Or an experiment? Which will end as soon as the novelty has worn off?”

“Well, this most definitely isn’t just an experiment to me,” John reassured. He stroked Sherlock’s back, secretly pleased that he was worried about this. Thankfully, they were on the same page. “And we’ve known each other for quite a while, so I’m pretty sure neither of us has any surprise secrets in store that could change anything.”

Sherlock smiled faintly, blinking repeatedly. “So you think that there actually is a chance,” he said, hesitantly, “that when we’re old and wrinkly,” – he briefly made a face at the idea of ever reaching this state – “we’ll still be together, like this, as a couple, I mean?”

“I think we very well might. And I definitely very much hope so.” John was smiling calmly, while inwardly, he was screaming ‘Oh, god yes, please be mine forever’.

“Won’t you get fed up with me?”

“I already am. But I’m still here,” he grinned, leaning in for a short kiss. “I have no intention of ever ceasing to be what I am to you now,” John added. “Unless, perhaps, we would decide one day to change our status from boyfriends to husbands.” He swallowed. That had actually been a rather ridiculous thing to say at this point. It had been meant as a joke, really, but it had come out much more seriously. Because deep down, he _was_ serious.

Sherlock stared long and hard at John, his eyes suddenly very shiny. He cleared his throat. “John, I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

There was a silence that John wasn’t quite sure what to make of. Just as he was starting to get worried, Sherlock whispered, “I love you too.”

John felt something inside him break that started to spread a wonderful warmth throughout his being.  
“In that case,” he said, as casually as he could manage, “how about lugging some boxes tomorrow and help me move back in here with you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Initially, this is where the story ended. But as soon as I posted it (back in 2014), I decided I wanted to write a couple of extra chapters (eleven, as it now turns out :D), in which all the little loose ends that were not resolved in the first version of this story (as they often aren't in real life, which is why I decided to write them like this in the first place) would be wrapped up after all.
> 
> Whereas I had originally intended the story to have the length of an episode, you could say it now has become an entire series. :D


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Previously, in Part I: While solving the case of Miss Violet Smith and her mysterious stalker, Sherlock and John finally discover that their feelings are mutual, and they become a couple. However, both are very unsure of how gay relationships work, in terms of sex, or in Sherlock’s case: how relationships and sex are supposed to work at all. As they navigate this unknown territory together, they discover that Violet’s stalker acted out of love, in order to protect her. Sherlock scares the real culprit away, while bringing the young lovers closer together._
> 
>  
> 
> In Part II, Sherlock tries to solve two new cases, involving several disguises – one of which features cross-dressing – while at the same time he is learning what it’s really like to be in a relationship. Presumptions are shattered, and mainly for the better. However, shortly after Sherlock decides to propose to John, everything they have is turned upside down when John gets a shocking revelation…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I’ve ended up turning this into an almost novel-length story after all! Although I had initially written a slightly open ending on purpose (where John never found out about Sherlock having once been sexually assaulted in his teens), I soon after realised that it would actually be much more interesting and rewarding to see this story through to the end and write a proper arc for these two characters with a proper happy ending.
> 
> Sorry it took me so long! I’m planning to post the next eleven chapters once or twice a week during the next two months; as soon as I finish the final editing on each one. Hope you enjoy.
> 
> (With many thanks again to my invaluable helpers mydogwatson, gingerhermit, Jonathan, Hannah and Amber! And of course to my long-suffering husband and kids, who have once more been deprived of their due attention during my writing this sequel. ;D)
> 
> _Warning: there's an nsfw image again in this chapter! ;D_  
>   
> 
> Comments are greatly appreciated. :)

**Part II**

Sherlock closed his eyes, a slight frown on his forehead as he gritted his teeth in mild frustration.

_Deeper. Deeper._

He lifted his shoulder blades from the mattress to reach between his spread thighs and grab John’s bottom, desperately digging his fingers into the wonderfully firm yet soft flesh, to pull John even closer to him. He ardently longed for John to hit the magic spot and wanted to come under his spell once more, to let his restless mind crash down all the way from the cold mountain tops where it too often resided. He could feel it hovering over him already, like an invisible veil that would trap him soon. He threw his head back, letting the delightful feeling of John moving inside him wash out all other things.

Sherlock loved nothing more than this: to lie on his back with John on top of him, holding him, alternately looking down at him in reverent wonder or fervidly kissing his neck and shoulders as he drove into Sherlock, caressing him from the inside, panting as he lost himself inside of him. The feeling of luscious fullness and being wanted like this were addictive new sensations and Sherlock couldn’t imagine how he’d ever lived without it.

John had needed a bit of seducing to get him into bed today. Sherlock happened to find John particularly adorable when he was hesitant and unsure, which was the way he had been also during their first time; and the first couple of times afterwards. It triggered a sort of trust and love in Sherlock that had made it possible to be relaxed enough to actually do this in the first place. On top of that, John was careful, attentive and controlled – even if sometimes a bit dominant – which made Sherlock feel truly safe (never once minding the dominant bit).

John was now making delicious small, short movements, his bum still firmly encaged by Sherlock’s hands. John closed his eyes for a moment, as if in painful resignation. “God, Sherlock, I love you so much,” he all but sobbed, his nostrils wide like he was fighting something inside him that was about to overwhelm him. Sherlock loved how arousal transformed John into a completely new person, desperate and defenceless, and he happily let his head fall to the side as John started showering one side of his face and neck with kisses.

[](http://sherlockedart.tumblr.com/)

Sherlock revelled in how John always made him feel cherished throughout every minute of their lovemaking. He always moved so very carefully, gently; never asking for more than Sherlock could give. In no way did sex with John remind Sherlock of Mr Middlehurst and his damned secluded storeroom full of world maps and planetary models. Sherlock had managed to largely overwrite and delete his traumatic childhood memory and replace it with John. But he still needed to _see_ John, never closing his eyes for more than a few seconds during sex, always making sure it was really him. As long as he could see, hear and smell John – his wonderful, steadfast, loyal John – everything was alright.

As soon as the ragged breaths near his ear told him that John was close, Sherlock wrapped his hand around his own cock, knowing precisely how to time his orgasm so that it would drive John over the edge and they would climax simultaneously. A technique he had fine-tuned over the three weeks they had been having intercourse now. He firmly stroked himself, until it flooded over him, drowning him like a sudden incoming tide, pulling him under, leaving him gasping for air, stranded like a flabby sea creature on a hot beach. It was a matter of seconds before John followed, uncoordinatedly slamming into his limp body – his loud grunts sending wonderful shivers over Sherlock’s moist and now extremely sensitive skin.

“God, Sherlock, you’re perfect, just perfect…”John muttered as he collapsed half-beside, half on top of him, one arm over his stomach.

“Hmm.”

As the afternoon light sifted through the curtains, which moved slightly in the spring breeze, Sherlock pressed one last kiss to John’s forehead before closing his eyes, a smile firmly plastered to his face.

It wasn’t until both their phones beeped, hours later, that they started to disentangle their limbs, lazily turning their heads to locate the devices. Sherlock squinted at his screen. His primary suspect in the Abergavenny murder had proven to have had an alibi, according to Lestrade. Apparently, he’d been recorded by CCTV in a shop in Newark at the time.

“Maybe we should look into the fruit trader, then, after all,” John commented, drowsily.

Sherlock let out a derisive grunt. “I want to look into Thompson’s so-called alibi first. It doesn’t make sense.” The greengrocer who had been found dead, strangled, behind his own shop had had a long-standing feud with his neighbour, who had repeatedly tried, and failed, to expand his business by buying the adjacent property. So this Thompson had certainly had a motive and Sherlock had found the rope that had been used as a murder weapon (covered in the victim’s skin cells) hidden inside a pillow case at the bottom of Thompson’s laundry basket. Sherlock’s brain was now quickly starting to present possible circumstances which might have given the man an opportunity to create such a fake alibi. “You start looking into the supplier though. I would still like to know what reason she had to have ten kilos of acetamiprid in stock.”

Sherlock reluctantly took his arm from around John and got out of bed to dress. John did the same. They both looked over each other’s bodies, smiling quiet good-byes as bare skin was neatly covered up again by clothing, a glint in both their eyes signalling a silent understanding that they would be together in this bed again as soon as the day’s work was over.

* * * * *

The following days passed with an ever-increasing amount of notes and diagrams accumulating on the surfaces and walls of the flat, and with Sherlock and John each immersed in their own lines of inquiry. Beside their regular grunts and sighs of frustration, they mostly worked in silence, except for the occasional “tea?” and “I’m going out” or “we should get some sleep”. That last one was mostly John.

Days turned into weeks, and one after another, John and Sherlock reached an impasse where they’d hit a dead end and there was momentarily nothing for them to do. Sherlock accepted a new case, tracing some documents that had gone missing, which gave him some new energy, and John took on some extra shifts at the surgery.

One afternoon, while John was out saving people from the woes of flu, warts and ingrown toenails, Sherlock found himself grumpily spinning a piece of evidence in his palm (a Doctor Who keychain that was found on the greengrocer’s body and which the deceased’s wife had assured Sherlock she’d never seen before) as he tried to remember the last time he and John had had sex. Was it three days ago? Or four? A worried frown became etched into his forehead. They used to do it every day, several times a day even, not two months ago. It seemed they were already stuck in a rut, before spring had even passed. It was a simple calculation to extrapolate when they would reach the point where they would stop doing it altogether. It had been too good to be true, hadn’t it? While he had pushed away the same thought dozens of times over the past weeks, Sherlock now couldn’t ignore it any longer. He squeezed his eyes shut. Was John getting bored with him already? Sherlock let out a slow breath. He’d been a fool, of course, to expect it to go otherwise. But what did it mean? Would John leave him once he would find his boredom to have reached an unacceptable level? Or would they simply stay together, even though John had stopped loving him, and they would become one of those dull, average couples with joyless lives who kept living together only because of a lack of courage to change course?

He shook his head and opened his eyes. If there was _anything_ he could do to make John continue to love him, he would have to find out what it was. At all costs.

* * * * *

When John came home, he walked over to the far end of the sofa to greet Sherlock with a kiss. “Hello, love. How was your day?”

“Uneventful,” Sherlock said with a tentative smile, briefly carding his fingers through John’s soft hair. He loved it when John asked about his day, even if nothing at all interesting had happened. “I missed you,” he said, tugging at the hem of John’s coat to persuade him to sit down next to him.

He did.

As John took off his shoes and kicked them under the coffee table, Sherlock meticulously observed him, judging whether he might be in the mood for physical intimacy. John looked tired but relaxed and Sherlock decided to go in for another kiss, making it slow and elaborate. Endorphins washed over Sherlock as John melted into his embrace and slowly let himself fall back towards the other end of the sofa, taking Sherlock with him. They rearranged their legs to be able to comfortably lie together and Sherlock revelled in the feeling of having maximum surface contact with his lover, feeling his presence with every part of his body and knowing John wasn’t soon going anywhere. He didn’t want to think about how he might not always be able to do this, about how these things, _relationships_ (especially John’s, he knew all too well), were often only fleeting.

They kissed for several minutes as their hands took lazy excursions to each other’s neck, shoulders and back, raising delightful goose bumps here and there.

Once Sherlock felt John’s bulge harden into the same state he himself had by now also reached, he began to gently grind down onto him. His legs were between John’s and he couldn’t deny that this position elicited a very specific fantasy in him. The first time they’d had penetrative sex, John had mentioned that he would also like to try bottoming, but the subject had never been raised again and Sherlock didn’t think it entirely unlikely that it never again would. He wasn’t sure whether he really minded. He loved everything they already did and he definitely wasn’t going to coerce John into switching. It would have to be a matter of patiently waiting to see if John would ever specifically ask for it. And Sherlock wasn’t even entirely sure it would be a good idea to do it anyway. There was a deeply hidden fear that he might be unable to be gentle; might lose control and hurt John. When Sherlock bottomed himself, he could at least completely surrender to his impulses without any risks. But nevertheless, in moments like these, the desire to penetrate presented itself quite plainly. How he would love for John to pull up his legs and wrap them around his back, surrendering to him, allowing him in…

Instead, coming back to the present, he became aware of John trying to shift his legs so that they were alternately aligned, clearly uncomfortable with their earlier position.

“Sorry,” John said apologetically, “but you were kind of squishing my bollocks.”

Ah. Might have gotten a bit carried away, Sherlock then realised. He tried to shake off the fantasy, deciding once more it was only for the best if it never became reality. He sat up, blushing, and attempted a smile, before starting to unbutton John’s shirt and trailing his hands over John’s chest. He planted a single kiss there, before reaching for John’s fly and undoing it in one fluid movement. He took John in hand and went on to kiss his mouth while tossing him off. He made sure John could do nothing but passively undergo it, which he deserved, after all, after a long day’s work, by keeping both his wrists pinned together on the armrest with his other hand.

It had to be said John came rather spectacularly hard after a minute or two. Afterwards, Sherlock only needed a few quick strokes to finish himself off, subsequently making them both giggle at the mess he’d managed to make of the both of them in such a short amount of time.

“Yoohoo! Are you boys decent?” Mrs Hudson’s voice rang through the upstairs hallway, only seconds after.

“No!” Sherlock yelled, before John had even had time to open his mouth. “No, we’re decidedly _not_ , Mrs Hudson. Please stay where you are!”

John’s giggling only increased at this. Sherlock rushed to the kitchen to get a towel to clean them up, a grin tugging at the corners of this mouth at the potential slapstick level of the situation as he awkwardly hopped back to the sofa, where John was still lying helplessly stranded and covered in cum.

“I just wanted to bring you some casserole leftovers,” Mrs Hudson spoke through the closed door, articulating clearly.

Sherlock was sure he heard her grin like a Cheshire cat through the solid wood. She quite obviously knew exactly what they had been up to. And ever since they’d gotten together, it appeared to have made their landlady almost as happy on their behalf as it made them.

“Just leave them at the door!” Sherlock replied, wiping them both off as well as he could while keeping up a conversation with his landlady.

“Thank you so much, Mrs Hudson,” John then called out, with a stern look directed at Sherlock. “ _So very kind of you_.”

“Yes! Very kind, thank you!” Sherlock added, thankful for John’s direction. He needed the man on so many levels.

Just then, they heard a loud thud and a breaking noise from the landing. Sherlock looked at John in alarm and, having tucked himself in already, jumped for the door. He narrowly avoided the casserole dish sitting on the landing, which turned out not to have been the source of the sound. He then took in the sight of a startled Mrs Hudson covering her mouth as she shrank back from the large broken flowerpot on the floor. “Oh dear,” was all she managed.

“It’s alright, Mrs Hudson,” he said, putting a hand on her arm. The plant had only been there for a few weeks. She must have forgotten it was there and knocked it over without seeing.

“It’s just that my eyes have been getting a bit blurry lately,” she stammered, clearly upset.

“Don’t worry about it, Mrs Hudson,” John said as he appeared from behind Sherlock, apparently having quickly finished erasing all the evidence of their previous activities.

The poor plant subtly waved its big leaves at them at an odd angle, seemingly in an attempt to remind them of its predicament.

“Here now, let me walk you back downstairs. You had yourself quite a fright, didn’t you? It was so nice of you to bring up some food for us…” John’s voice faded away as he disappeared around the stair bend with her, leaving Sherlock to stare at the still life on the floor with a faint smile as he contemplated his perfect little family – the bubble of disappointment he’d felt earlier shrinking somewhat to a less intrusive presence inside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you would like to reblog the image above to your tumblr, you can find it on my blog [here](http://shirleycarlton.tumblr.com/post/145773115361/steamysherlockart-sherlockedart-ive-decided). :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit later than I promised, sorry! The whole proofreading process always takes more time than I anticipate, and it doesn't help that I'm a bit of a perfectionist. :D
> 
> Anyway, so here's the second chapter of the sequel.
> 
> Btw I just want to say in advance that I hope that nobody thinks that either me or John is mixing up cross-dressers with transgender people, because we’re not! Just so you know. :)

While living and working with Sherlock was certainly never boring, being in a relationship with him was even less so. Although their lives continued to revolve mainly around Sherlock’s _Work_ (no, not just Sherlock’s, _both_ their work, John kept having to remind himself), the Work also managed to permeate their sex life in, well, interesting ways.

At the moment, John found himself in the small confines of a changing room at H&M’s, with Sherlock attempting – at a distance of less than two feet from him – to fit into a glittery gold dress that he was currently trying to carefully pull down over the pink, heart-patterned push-up bra that he was wearing. They were shopping for appropriate outfits to mingle with the boys from the Hounslow Cross-dressing Club, of which the strangled greengrocer had turned out to have been a member. John had picked a blue cocktail dress, which was however still on its hanger on the hook behind him, as he didn’t possess the same enthusiasm that Sherlock did for these kinds of disguises. Seeing Sherlock’s proficiency in this area, or rather, the result thereof, could on the other hand definitely gain his approval. The man was gorgeous no matter what he wore, but the sight of him in a dress was more arousing than John had anticipated.

It was not just the dress, though. Even as Sherlock was still in the process of putting it on, something decidedly feminine had come over him: the graceful way he carried himself, how he elegantly moved his fingers, the manner in which he coyly tilted his head to check the mirror. It had made John’s mouth go dry and he cleared his throat – for the third time now. The tiniest hint of a smile played around Sherlock’s lips as he casually glanced at John in the reflection. John hid his lips to quench a grin. Sherlock, apparently, found this a reason to turn his head and slowly bat his eyelashes at John over the edge of one slightly raised shoulder, as he almost unnoticeably stuck out his bottom and let his hands dangle loosely from his wrists.

This was too much.

John was zipping down his fly before he even thought about what he was doing – half his brain possibly even fooled by the fact that he’d been planning to undress to try his outfit on anyway, although truthfully that plan had little to do with his actions right now. Sherlock’s mouth formed a cheeky, noiseless ‘oh’ that made John abandon all decorum and he grabbed Sherlock’s hips to press his cock (still with his pants on) against Sherlock’s gold-clad arse. The bastard then found it necessary to softly let out a high-pitched ‘mmm’ that sent shivers down John’s spine. He was really asking for it, John decided. They’d never done it in this position before, used as they were to the comfort of their bed, and occasionally the sofa, but as needs must, John pulled his pants down and then reached underneath the dress for Sherlock’s. But his lover grabbed his wrists before he’d gotten hold of his underwear.

“What, exactly, is your plan?” Sherlock murmured quietly. “In case you’ve momentarily forgotten, I’m not actually in possession of a self-lubricating vagina, and I don’t think either of us is carrying lube,” he added with a playful eye-roll.

John cursed softly. Sherlock was right; he’d completely lost his mind. He rested his forehead against the nape of Sherlock’s neck, taking a calming breath. Then he awkwardly pulled his pants back up over his still erect cock, unable to suppress the impulse to press it against the glittery fabric covering Sherlock’s arse one more time as he continued to marvel at the way the seemingly liquid gold fell across his back and shoulders. The tantalising mix of feminine and masculine was driving him mad. It was as if hitherto separate compartments of his sexual desire were suddenly united, creating new cross connections in his mind that ignited with sparks of a fresh intensity.

“I think we can safely say I found the right dress,” Sherlock cut through his reverie with a smirk. “Now, what shade of eyeshadow would best go with it, you think? We should pop round to Boots in a bit. Oh, and earrings! Yes, definitely earrings. And hairclips, while we’re at it.” He turned around to face John. “We should get some for you too,” he added cheekily as he moved his face ever closer to John’s. “Maybe one with a big flower on it. Now, try on that blue dress, will you? Although I doubt it will give me the same raging boner you’re having right now, I still want to see how it looks on you. Spit spot now.”

There was only one thing John wanted at the moment, and it was not to try on the stupid dress. He needed to get off so badly that for a moment he considered seducing Sherlock into giving him a blowjob, but they were in a shop, for fuck’s sake.

_Get yourself together, Watson._

“You know what,” Sherlock whispered, “if you try on the dress like a good boy, I will suck you off as soon as we get home.”

John’s heart rate leapt to a hundred per minute.

“That is, after we’ve bought all the other things we need.”

Fine. Perfect. Yes, he didn’t care. Anything.

“Because I will be wearing them.”

John swallowed and nodded.

He didn’t care how ridiculous he looked when he finally put the dress on. All that mattered was the promise in Sherlock’s filthy smirk.

* * * * *

Seeing as John needed no less than two blowjobs to be cured of his erection that afternoon, Sherlock announced he would make John come at least twice also the next morning, before their visit to Hounslow, in order to avoid embarrassing boners during work.

[](http://sherlockedart.tumblr.com/)

This is how John found himself being pushed back into Sherlock’s armchair as soon as he strolled into the living room that Friday morning, whereupon Sherlock climbed into his lap and rode him absolutely senseless until he was properly blissed out. Unable to so much as move a muscle during the next couple of minutes, he let Sherlock take care of himself – which he did quickly and efficiently – after which John was taken by the hand and guided to a lovely, warm bath waiting for them in the bathroom.

“We need to get you nice and clean for round two,” Sherlock said teasingly, in response to John raising his eyebrows in surprise.

They’d not yet had a bath together, and although it was a bit of a squeeze, if felt wonderfully relaxing just sitting together: Sherlock leaning his back to John’s chest, surrounded by warm water and damp air as they listened to the little sounds of the bath foam.

As he sat there smiling like a fool at the back of Sherlock’s head, John realised that this was it. Pure happiness: every living person’s life goal. The way he felt right now was genuinely the biggest possible contrast to those two years after The Fall. As dark as that time had been, this, what they had now, entirely made up for it. It almost scared John to think there was no way life could get any better than this: being with his loved one almost 24/7, working together on challenging cases with ridiculous disguises and irregular working hours, leaving time to just have a bath on a Friday morning when the whim caught them. The two days he still worked at the surgery provided a basic income for the meagre months as well as a welcome connection to ‘normal life’. Living with a genius madman was not always easy, for sure, but all the same, John felt he had everything he could wish for, right there in his arms. He tightened his hold on Sherlock a bit and pressed a kiss to his temple.

“What are you thinking about?” Sherlock asked.

“How lucky I am,” John replied, still smiling to himself.

“Hmm,” Sherlock hummed. “And you’re about to become even luckier.” Sherlock turned around to face him, water sploshing everywhere, with a seductive grin on his face that made John blush like a teenager. Sherlock brought his face close to John’s, resting his elbows on the edge of the tub as he not quite touched John’s nose with his. “Now, I want you to behave this afternoon and to pay _attention_ while we’re in Hounslow, alright? And _not_ to my body, that is.”

John couldn’t help snorting out a laugh. The git was right, though. John could already feel his cock twitching again.

Pretending to be unaffected, Sherlock continued, “As unconventional as this might be from a pedagogical perspective, I’m going to give you your reward _beforehand_ , as promising to do so afterwards would only be counterproductive, I fear.” He was barely managing to keep a straight face himself by this point. “So will you _promise_ to behave, John Watson?” he asked, playfully faking sternness.

“I promise I will try,” John replied truthfully, already having a hard time focusing on the conversation they were having.

Sherlock then pressed his mouth to John’s and was soon snogging him thoroughly, very effectively bringing back all John’s blood to where he clearly wanted it to be right now. Meanwhile, John could feel Sherlock’s own half-hard cock occasionally bounce against his bollocks under water. When it brushed the region very near his arsehole, however, he uncontrolledly let out a startled grunt. The feeling had not been unpleasant, quite the contrary, but to him it was both unfamiliar and very sensitive territory.

“Sorry,” Sherlock mumbled, suddenly looking concerned.

“No, no, it’s fine,” John smiled reassuringly. “It’s just… still a bit of an unfamiliar sensation to me, is all.” With Sherlock between his legs like this and the electricity just now provoked by such a subtle touch in _that_ area, John once more thought back to that very first time in Sherlock’s bed, when Sherlock had taken John to heaven with little touches and ghosts of breaths over his bum. Although one part of him was screaming to explore more of that, something was holding him back, and the fact that he was being held back for no apparent reason, embarrassed him.

John had topped about two dozen times now, and had subconsciously been waiting for Sherlock to initiate a switched position, as he was stupidly nervous about it himself. Still, as much as he loved it when Sherlock was submissive and open as he was when John made love to him, John was also more than curious to see what his lover would be like if they switched. Also, seeing Sherlock so blatantly display his feminine side the other day had kindled a longing inside himself to do the same. Not so much in the sense of dressing up, as much fun as that had been, but more in regard to occasionally assuming a more passive role and handing over control in bed. (Not that those were inherently feminine things to do, necessarily, but that angle did evoke a certain notion in him.)

John pulled Sherlock closer towards him in the bath and tried to give in to being vulnerable like this, with Sherlock on top of him while his legs were spread open. Sherlock had been so trusting, had let him in, literally. Why was it so hard for him to do the same? “I love you,” John whispered. And before Sherlock had a chance to reply, John trapped his mouth in a slow and deep kiss to reinforce the message.

When they broke contact for air, Sherlock gracefully lifted himself and lured John out of the tub with a cheeky smirk. As soon as Sherlock had quickly dried them both off, he guided John to the bedroom, where he proceeded to give him the most spectacular blowjob in the history of time.

When John finally came, he was half-afraid he might have alarmed Scotland Yard with his cries.

He opened his eyes to see the smuggest grin he’d ever seen on Sherlock’s face – which was saying something.

“Can I safely get dressed for our mission now?”

“Ugh,” was all John managed in reply. He was well and utterly spent and half wondering whether he would be fit enough to accompany Sherlock at all.

“I’ll first go and make some coffee,” Sherlock said, as he abandoned John’s lifeless body and left the room.

* * * * *

The taxi ride to Hounslow was about as embarrassing as John had imagined it would be. The driver kept throwing amused glances at them in the rear view mirror, while Sherlock was busy on his phone as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

John felt utterly ridiculous with his cornflower blue dress, his flat lady’s shoes and the huge purple flower in his hair. Sherlock at least looked convincing, with his pretty earrings and high heels. (John had been too afraid to fall flat on his face to even try those.) The git had even shaved his legs. John had settled for leggings, which meant that the heat was killing him already before they’d even got there.

In fact, Sherlock looked nothing short of stunning in the gold dress with his eyes accentuated with black eyeliner, mascara and green eyeshadow, his cheekbones highlighted with just the right shade of blusher. The extraordinary thing about Sherlock, though, was the way he _moved_. Literally the only thing that might give him away was his voice. And they weren’t technically even trying to pass as women. They were only trying to pass as cross-dressers. But well, whenever Sherlock did anything, he threw himself into it at least a hundred percent.

“The things you wouldn’t do for the missus, eh?” the driver said with a wicked grin when John paid him. John blinked. Oh god. Did the man actually think that Sherlock was his _wife_? Bloody hell. He couldn’t help but grin in response. “Not my missus,” he said, shaking his head. “My boyfriend.” More chuffed than he cared to admit, he left the driver with his mouth hanging half open and turned to follow Sherlock.

In the thirty metres it took to get to the main entrance of the community centre, Sherlock managed to get more appreciative looks than John did funny ones. One bloke even whistled, at which Sherlock casually smirked and John felt his cheeks heat. _Mine_ , was all he could think, gritting his teeth. He quickly made for the door, feeling relieved when it fell shut behind them, until it occurred to him that Sherlock would likely only get even more of this kind of attention inside, from men who were mostly actually into men, which made it worse. Although part of him wanted to show off his amazing, brilliant boyfriend to anybody in range, another part of him wanted to shield Sherlock from the world and have him only to himself; for no one else to see his beauty, ever – _especially_ the way he looked now. John closed his eyes for a second, trying to rid himself of these ridiculous thoughts. Sherlock flashed a small smile at him as he held open one of the swing doors into the theatre room. “You look lovely too, John,” he whispered with a wink, and pursed his lips into an imaginary kiss. John smiled and pursed his lips back at him, before quickly focusing on the room they were entering.

On the stage on the far end there was a colourful bunch gathered. Men in tacky and mostly glittery women’s clothing seemed to be discussing who was to stand where, apparently preparing some sort of act. A brief glance at a poster on the wall right next to John told him The Hounslow Cross-dressing Club was to appear in a local charity event the week after next, raising money for a local children’s hospital.

“Oohh… _look_! I see some lovely new ladies!” shrieked a voice from across the hall. John swallowed as he tried to keep his face neutral. Sherlock, however, went into full feminine overdrive mode, swaying his hips forward and his shoulders back as he enthusiastically waved one limp hand at the men.

John had to look twice at the person approaching them through the middle aisle: he passed as well as a woman as Sherlock did. “I was wondering if you were still taking new members,” Sherlock said with a radiant smile. John thought he actually saw a hint of admiration flicker across the other man’s face at Sherlock’s voice confirming that he was, in fact, a man. “For _you_ girls, we most definitely are!” The man’s – heavily made up – wide eyes quickly scanned them both, lingering rather critically, John felt, on John and his outfit. John tried to smile, and casually swung his hip to one side in imitation of Sherlock.

“My name is Mia,” the man said. “I’m the president.” 

“I’m Shirley,” John heard Sherlock say, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, “and this is Janine.” John’s smile froze on his face upon hearing that name. Although Janine had become quite a dear friend after Sherlock had dropped his façade with her, the mention of her name in the context of Sherlock’s partner gave him a foul taste in the mouth. He told himself it was just a random woman’s name starting with the same letter as his to make it easier to remember. Nevertheless, he promised himself he would get back at Sherlock for this one as soon as an appropriate opportunity arose.

As he looked around, John marvelled at the diversity of the people he was seeing here, and he admired the guts they had to just follow their fancy, to be unique. Cross-dressing was not just a hobby like travelling or football, which you could accidentally find yourself doing one day to the next without really ever having chosen to. These people seemed to have found something that they enjoyed very specifically, and John almost envied them.

The next hour passed with the two of them being treated to the club’s rendition of Lady Gaga’s ‘Poker Face’ and Sherlock quietly deducing the crap out of everyone in the room from their plastic chairs in the audience. He ended up with a couple of clues that needed following up on, for which he gladly used the coffee and tea break.

While John, positioned in a corner as unobtrusively as possible with his tiny cup of lukewarm tea, tried to figure out how to carry himself more or less like a lady so as not to make a complete fool out of himself, Sherlock managed to interrogate his suspects apparently in a subtle enough way not to get kicked out prematurely – because they weren’t; quite to John’s relief. (He didn’t want to imagine the scene that would ensue if they were.) Unfortunately, one of the lads decided meanwhile to try and make him feel at home by striking up a conversation with him.

“Hi, I’m Charlotte!” he drawled.

“Er, Janine, _hi_.”

“So, you’re from around here, then?” Charlotte asked, his fake eyelashes fluttering up and down comically under his earnestly wrinkled brows with every eye movement. John couldn’t help but notice how his purple eyeshadow had been applied with admirable perfection.

“Er, yeah, well, no, depends,” John replied. Crap. Why hadn’t they come up with some sort of backstory beforehand? “I’m actually from out of town, just staying with my friend here in London at the moment.” That would have to do. “And you?” he asked quickly, in an attempt to deflect further questions.

“Southbank,” the man answered. “But no cross-dressing clubs there, so…”

“By the way, I love your eyeshadow! Where did you get it from?” John countered enthusiastically, steering the conversation away from cross-dressing clubs and their locations before it could come to light that he knew absolutely nothing on the subject.

“Thank you! I got it from Ally, you know…” Charlotte’s face fell into a sad smile, from which seconds later, only the sadness remained.

Then it dawned on John. Ally… _Albert_ : their murder victim!

John was strictly speaking only there to observe and to provide backup if things should escalate, but this was too good an opportunity to ignore. “Oh! Yes, I heard! He… she died, right? A member of your club?” John said sympathetically. “Awful business, just awful.”

Charlotte’s reaction confirmed that he was right. A hint of bitterness crept into her face as she said, “Yeah, there’s still a lot of bastards out there who think you’re not allowed to live if you don’t fit into their neat illusion of gender binary.”

“So you think that’s why he was killed, then?” They hadn’t investigated that angle yet, John realised.

“Well, must have been, right? Why else would anyone want to kill him?”

Just at that moment, Sherlock rolled his eyes at John from across the room. He’d hit another dead end, apparently.

“So did you know him well, then?” John suddenly realised they had switched to using male pronouns, which apparently was okay when talking about the deceased. As if it was only Albert that had died, and not his persona Ally.

“No, not that well,” Charlotte said (probably Charles in daily life, John thought). “He was really close to Sue Ann though, whom your friend is now talking to. What’s her name again?”

It took John half a second before he realised what answer he was supposed to give. “Shirley,” he said, forcing himself to sound casual.

“You really like her, don’t you?” Charlotte winked at John, who was now sure his face was beet-red and could only hope that his make-up helped conceal that fact to some extent, while he continued to feign nonchalance.

“Janine, shall we go, darling?” Sherlock’s voice suddenly sounded from right beside him. John nodded, then cringed as Charlotte looked at Sherlock approvingly and somewhat flirtatiously. Sherlock, naturally, instantly picked up on this and flirted right back as he said, “So nice to get to know this wonderful little group.” He directed his comment simultaneously at Mia, who was only standing a couple of feet away, pouring a cup of tea. “Thank you so much for letting us pop by.”

“You’re very welcome,” Mia replied. “We do hope to see you girls again in future.”

“Most certainly you will!” Sherlock smiled radiantly. And at that, he hooked his arm into John’s and they walked out the swing doors.

Sherlock didn’t drop his cheery act until they were well inside a cab (again, almost giving the cabbie a heart attack when Sherlock’s true gender became clear as soon as he opened his mouth to speak). “Nothing, again,” Sherlock spat. “None of them seems to have had either motive or opportunity. Nor could any of them shed any new light on the case whatsoever.” He sighed.

John couldn’t help but grin at the startled eyes in the rear view mirror. “Then again,” he said, more serious as he turned to Sherlock, “there is one motive we hadn’t really properly considered yet, which is one that the fair _Charlotte_ suggested to me.

“An act of hate against cross-dressers,” Sherlock said. “Of course I did consider that, as soon as we found out that he’d been one. But that doesn’t seem highly probable, seeing as he wasn’t dressed as a woman at his time of death and also the killer didn’t leave any hints as to such a motive, which they usually do in those kind of cases. Often quite explicitly.” His gaze drifted off as he stared out of the cab window and they didn’t speak again during the rest of the ride.

As soon as John was done paying the cabbie and had jogged up the stairs to their flat after Sherlock, he found him staring at his mobile phone in utter disgust.

“What’s up?” John asked, not sure whether to be worried or amused.

“Text. From Mycroft. Who apparently has nothing better to do than scan London’s CCTV footage.” Sherlock showed him the screen.

\- - You boys having a good time? :)

John snorted. “The git. I presume, however, it’s the smiley face that triggered your abhorrence?”

“Indeed. What _was_ he thinking?”

“Come here,” John coaxed. “Let me make you forget all that is wrong and ridiculous in this world.” And he pulled Sherlock close to him, touching his nose to Sherlock’s, while cupping his arse with one hand and one of his fake breasts with the other, determined to take advantage of their disguise one last time.

Two minutes later, when they were in the bedroom and Sherlock was lying on his back on the bed, John slowly edged up the bottom of his dress. Then his breath hitched. Sherlock was wearing red lace knickers. John stared a moment and swallowed. The way the fabric pulled taut over Sherlock’s proud prick was the most enticing thing he’d ever seen. He bit his lip and smiled. “Why on earth would you be wearing ladies’ underwear?”

“John, I can’t very well dress up as a woman wearing a man’s boxers underneath, now can I?”

John thought he very well could, because it’s what he had done, after all, but he wasn’t about to argue.

Sherlock easily let his legs fall open as John caressed the intricate pattern, grinning like a complete idiot. He just couldn’t get over how beautiful Sherlock looked like this, the golden fabric of his dress glistening as it rippled with every small movement, Sherlock’s long eyelashes slowly moving up and down with every blink, while Sherlock seemed completely at ease with himself, and totally unafraid. There was something so shockingly pure about him like this, that it almost made John afraid to touch him. At the same time, he wanted nothing more in this moment than to make love to him, to drive into that gorgeous body until he emptied himself into his pretty arse.

But it didn’t feel _right_.

He should not always be the one topping. It wasn’t fair on Sherlock to keep doing it this way. He should really just give him a blowjob instead, John decided, because he hadn’t done that in way too long.

Trying hard to ignore his own by now rather painful erection, he started kissing a trail up Sherlock’s left leg towards his crotch. Once there, he planted another dozen kisses all over his cock through the lace, ending with one on the tip, which stuck out partly from beneath. John was imagining that even Sherlock’s squirming had a definite feminine edge to it now that he was in women’s clothes.

Then, upon spotting a red stain on Sherlock’s skin where he’d just kissed him, he realised with a start that he himself was also still wearing women’s make-up and outfit. He giggled.

“What?” Sherlock asked, bemused.

“I just realised I still look like a would-be cross-dresser; and a rather unconvincing one at that. Whereas _you_ , Miss _Shirley_ , look like the most amazing, gorgeous creature on this planet, begging to be _eaten up_!” At that, John made a growling sound as he opened his jaws around Sherlock’s cock in a fake bite, before hooking his fingers in the lace and carefully pulling it down Sherlock’s thighs.

While Sherlock helped wriggle his knickers off his legs, John took the opportunity to quickly take off his suffocating leggings – and his pants, while he was at it.

With his blue dress casually brushing against his now bare thighs – a strange, unfamiliar sensation – he crawled back to the spot between Sherlock’s legs. He bent down and licked a long stripe over the length of Sherlock’s cock, making him suck in a long breath through his teeth. Then he paused, looking up at Sherlock to increase suspense. His lover was now practically trembling with anticipation. John smiled, thinking about the best strategy to make this last. He then firmly gripped the base of Sherlock’s cock between a circle of two fingers and started slowly swirling his tongue around Sherlock’s glans.

“Oh, god, _John_!” Sherlock moaned, gripping the sheets so tightly his knuckles turned white. John reduced the contact to only the tip of his tongue, teasingly running it over Sherlock’s frenulum. “God, _please_ … John…”

“It’s Janine, now,” John dryly corrected him.

Sherlock huffed out a laugh, before dissolving into moans and whimpers again.

After a couple of minutes, John took pity on Sherlock and he closed his lips around him, sucking him deep, but not hard, and still tantalisingly slow. He could feel Sherlock trying not to thrust up into his throat, so clearly did he want to.

“Please, just _fuck_ me already,” Sherlock panted.

John pulled off, confused.

“Just get your cock inside of me, John,” Sherlock pleaded once more, writhing in the sheets.

“Are you sure? I mean, do you really want me inside you?” John frowned.

Sherlock stretched out an arm to grab the lube from the bedside table and tossed it at John in response. Then, seeing John’s reluctance, Sherlock added hesitantly, “Unless you don’t want to, that is.”

“No, I do! I do,” John assured him, almost tearing his dress as he took it off in one swift movement. He wasn’t very well going to do it looking like _this_. He also got rid of his bra and the silly flower in his hair, before quickly lubing himself up. He then leaned over Sherlock, planting his hands on either side of his torso and very carefully applied the lightest pressure to Sherlock’s arse for a few seconds, before he felt it open around him and he slid in easily.

He loved Sherlock and he loved nothing more than to make love to him like this: to have Sherlock look up at him expectantly from below, with his legs around John’s back as he pumped into him. It was the best feeling in the world, in spite of the guilt eating away at him. But Sherlock had asked him to do this, even though John didn’t quite understand why. _(Did being penetrated honestly feel that good?)_ And he never could deny Sherlock anything he asked of John, whatever his motive.

He kissed Sherlock, smearing lipstick everywhere, two colours mingling, before moving over to his ear, where he whispered ‘I love you, I love you’ over and over as he drove into him. When Sherlock reached for his prick, John gently batted away Sherlock’s arm, swearing to himself to give him the best blowjob of his life afterwards.

Stars exploded behind his eyes as he filled Sherlock, and he kept pressing deeper and deeper into him until his cum leaked out from around his cock.

And then, as soon as he’d pulled himself together, he made good on his silent promise, continuing to suck Sherlock from where he’d left off earlier. After letting Sherlock hover on the edge of orgasm for as long as he could, John finally let him come down his throat – the golden dress glittering as Sherlock trembled through his climax.

After Sherlock had come back to his senses and John was lying cuddled up next to him, John jokingly teased, “So which Janine sucked you off better, eh?”

Sherlock frowned, looking utterly bewildered. “John, you didn’t honestly think—”

“What?”

“John, Janine never touched me in that way. The relationship was never real, you know that.”

John blinked. She hadn’t? God, he had been so jealous of her.

There was an awkward silence, in which John tried to piece the puzzle together. When Sherlock said their relationship was never ‘real’, did he mean they hadn’t even..?

“I couldn’t manage to _not ever_ share a bed with her, so I did, but that’s all. I slept with her literally, but not metaphorically, John. When I said I hadn’t done this with anyone before, I meant _all_ of this,” Sherlock said solemnly. “I’ve never had any sort of sex with… well er… anyone, really… but you.”

John really shouldn’t have felt relieved about this. He had a past himself, after all. It wasn’t fair. But still he did. As he felt a subtle weight being lifted from his shoulders that he hadn’t known had been there, he saw Sherlock looking away as if he was embarrassed, and it broke John’s heart. “I… I didn’t realise.” He wrapped his arms around his lover. How had they never talked about this properly in two months’ time? “So I was definitely the best Janine, then.”

Sherlock giggled. “Yes, definitely the best Janine. Although I personally like you better without the dress and make-up, _John_.”

* * * * *

A couple of days went by with Sherlock poring over the Abergavenny file again, taking all the crime scene pictures off the wall and putting them up again in a different composition, enabling him to scrutinise every detail quite literally from another angle.

“Let’s go and pay Molly a visit,” he suddenly said one morning, continuing to squint at the wall.

John looked up from his newspaper. “Okay.”

At the morgue, they found Molly in the same cheerful mood as always. She was bending down to look into a dead woman’s ear when they entered and she continued to work while she greeted them.

“Molly, I was wondering if you would still remember the Abergavenny murder victim,” Sherlock began. “The strangled greengrocer: tall, white-blond guy.”

She seemed to think for a moment, but then said, “Yeah, sure, about a month ago, right?”

“Yes. I was wondering whether you remember or documented any other bruises than the ones around his neck. On the crime scene photos there seemed to be one that was not in your report.”

Molly straightened, abandoning her investigation of the woman’s ear. “Well, that’s strange. Let me think.”

John was wondering whether she was still in love with Sherlock, and felt a little sorry for having stolen her love interest, even if there had never been and never would be any chance of Sherlock reciprocating her feelings. From her open posture, he seemed to observe that she was genuinely happy for him and Sherlock for having ended up together, but one never knew what went on inside other people’s heads and hearts. John liked Molly, and wished she could be as happy as he now was.

Sherlock handed her the picture on which a dark bruise-like spot could be seen on the victim’s temple, and she studied it for a minute. “Oh, I remember! Lestrade mentioned that there were some mud spatters that partly got washed off in the rain before they’d had the tent over the body. I think this is probably a mud stain.”

Sherlock’s eyes glazed over as he apparently considered the credibility or the implications of this option.

Knowing that he would be lost in his Mind Palace for a while, John casually stepped closer to Molly and said, “He really likes you, you know. Greg. I noticed at the wedding he couldn’t stop looking at you.”

“What, Greg Lestrade?” Molly laughed nervously. “Of course he doesn’t. Why would he like _me_?” She didn’t seem to know where to look for a moment.

“Well, I’m quite sure he does. And remember, I’ve learnt a few tricks in observation from Mr Consulting Detective here.” He smiled at her and she smiled back, still shy.

“Oh! Well, I’m sure you’re better at reading people than I am, what with all the unsuitable men I dated in the past years...” Molly bit her lip while her hands were playing with the edge of the photograph she was still holding.

“And I believe that Greg is a very decent fellow,” John said. “You should give him a chance.”

Molly frowned. “You really think he fancies me?”

John thought he saw a glimmer of hope in her eyes and nodded. Of course, he was not a relationship expert by far, but he definitely thought that they might make a nice couple. He could only hope he was not sending her from bad to worse with this move.

“Lestrade.”

Molly and John both looked at Sherlock, bemused.

“Let’s go see him. Scotland Yard.” And off Sherlock strode, out of the room. John shrugged apologetically and raised his eyebrows at Molly, who flashed a shy smile as he made to leave after his partner. “Good luck with, er, the lady’s ear,” John said by way of farewell as he walked out the door.

“Thanks, bye!”

While they were stuck in traffic with their cab, Sherlock let out a long sigh, before stating, “If it was a mud stain, there is a good chance that this murder will never get solved. That bruise was my last clue.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you would like to reblog the image above to your tumblr, you can find it on my blog [here](http://shirleycarlton.tumblr.com/post/146169768941/cumberbitchsandwich-sherlockedart). :)


	9. Chapter 9

To Sherlock’s chagrin, the dark spot on the body turned out to indeed have been a mud spatter.

In the following days, Sherlock tried in vain to find another angle to the case, unable to deduce any plausible alternative possibilities of motive or perpetrator of the crime.

Simultaneously he was, however, rather chuffed to have found the solution in his own _case of personal interest_ , namely the secret to John’s desire – even if its artificial nature did to an extent feed a nagging worry at the back of his mind. When he came back from the lingerie shop that Sunday just after noon, he immediately sneaked into the bathroom to change into his new set, then put his clothes back on over it. He’d gone for the smallest cup size this time, naturally, seeing as he would have to be able to wear the bra under his normal clothes. He’d chosen a light shade of petrol blue, lace again. John seemed to have liked that. The memory of the look of John’s face the week prior brought a smile to his face, tentatively breaking through the general sadness that had been growing in his heart.

John hadn’t touched him that way since.

Although Sherlock quite liked the idea of wearing lingerie himself and couldn’t wait to see John’s reaction when he would undress, he could also not help but feel that on some level he was trying to be something he was not. However, he quickly pushed aside that feeling and buried it somewhere unreachable, as it was a generally known fact that relationships required continuous work and compromise. There was no use grouching about a perfectly adequate solution to a serious problem. Though he did make a mental note to try out next time if just knickers without a bra would do the trick as well, as that would make him feel at least slightly less awkward.

The anticipation he felt throughout the rest of that day was completely lost on John, much to Sherlock’s ever-increasing annoyance. John was reading up on medical journals and would probably not even have noticed if an elephant had casually strolled into the room.

Sherlock threw himself onto the sofa to sulk and decided he would simply have to wait until they went to bed.

When they finally did, he ventured a more active attempt at seducing John. Before they got undressed, he cupped John’s face in his hands and kissed him. John kissed him back, but as soon as they broke contact, he turned away and left for the bathroom. Was John upset with him? No, there was definitely a relaxed smile on his face. It seemed he just wasn’t that interested. Again.

Sherlock wasn’t sure what to do next. Should he just take his clothes off already? Or maybe brush his teeth first, like John was probably doing now? He decided on the latter and joined John in the bathroom.

As they brushed their teeth together, Sherlock looked at John in the mirror. He seemed tired but content. He’d presumably read some interesting articles that had been worth his time, Sherlock thought. John finished before Sherlock did and disappeared back into the bedroom. By the time Sherlock went back in there as well, John was already in bed, sitting up against the headboard. Sherlock decided he would just get undressed and see what happened.

He kept his eyes on John as he unbuttoned his shirt. John, however, was checking his phone. Catching up on blog comments, probably.

When his shirt was open, Sherlock didn’t take it off just yet, but started unzipping his trousers first. Once his fly was undone, clearly exposing the lace of his knickers, John must have sensed some of Sherlock’s anticipation in his breathing, because he suddenly looked up. Then his eyes widened and his eyebrows rose high on his forehead. Sherlock let his trousers pool at his ankles and shrugged off his shirt, revealing his bra, before gracefully diving into the bed next to John, smirking.

“Sherlock? Why are you wearing ladies’ underwear?” John didn’t sound half as excited as Sherlock had expected him to be.

Sherlock frowned. “I thought… this would… make it easier for you.”

“Easier?”

“Yes, well, seeing as you’re, you know…”

John’s eyebrows rose impossibly higher as a sign for Sherlock to explain what he was trying to say.

“As you’re… well… probably more of a lady’s man after all.” Sherlock swallowed, not quite knowing where to look.

“Sherlock…” John smiled and shook his head, briefly looking up at the ceiling. “What on _earth_ have you gotten into your head?”

Sherlock blinked a couple of times. He didn’t understand John’s reaction, couldn’t understand what he’d just asked. “So it isn’t that, then?” he managed. He didn’t want to consider the alternative that was now, once more, trying to present itself to him. But the words came out of his mouth before he’d allowed them to. “You just don’t love me anymore, then?” His eyes were burning and he cursed himself for becoming emotional like this. _Why_ had he ever allowed himself to go back into this maze of confusing messiness of begin _human_?

Then suddenly there were two arms around him and John’s forehead was pressing against his. “Sherlock, _why_ in the name of God would you think I didn’t love you anymore? “

After a beat of silence, Sherlock concluded with some reluctance that it was apparently necessary to state the obvious. “Because you haven’t made love to me in over a week, John,” he said, defeated.

He then felt two hands on either side of his head, holding him inches away from John’s face. John looked at him as if he were watching water burn. It took a while before any words came out of his mouth, and when they did, he was just repeating what Sherlock had said. “You think I don’t love you anymore, because I haven’t made love to you in over a week?”

Sherlock didn’t want to look at him, just wanted to disappear under a big rock, like a pill bug, and hide from the world. He closed his eyes.

“Sherlock, that is the most ridiculous and utter nonsense that I have ever heard.” John sounded annoyed now. “Where in heaven’s name did you get the idea that…”

Sherlock opened his eyes again. John then dropped his head for a second, letting out a long breath. “I see. Yes. Come here.” He motioned for Sherlock to sit up against the headboard with him, and took Sherlock’s hand in his. “First of all, listen to me. I love you. Very, very much. In spite of how ridiculously wired that brain of yours is. Okay? I have loved you for a very long time and I don’t think it likely I will ever stop doing so. You hear me?” He placed one hand on Sherlock’s cheek and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s, remaining still like that for a while. Sherlock had no idea where this conversation was going, but this was good. Yes, definitely, very good.

When he broke contact, John went on, speaking softly, “Secondly, the frequency of our having sex says very little, if anything at all, about how much we love each other, as far as I’m concerned.”

This was new information.

John looked at him with a kind of desperation in his eyes, apparently willing Sherlock to understand what he was saying. Sherlock didn’t. ( _For if that was not a measure of how good their relationship was, then what was?_ ) But he would store it and try to later.

“Thirdly, the average couple has sex only about twice a week. At times you skip a week, or two, maybe even more sometimes when you’re busy and tired. That’s _normal_ , Sherlock.”

Sherlock frowned. _But_ …

“Yes, we used to do it twice a day for the first couple of weeks. That’s also normal, love.” John was smiling at him fondly now, and rubbed his thumb gently over Sherlock’s hand.

_Oh._

As he processed this information, Sherlock could feel his cheeks redden. So if this was normal, was that not a bad thing, then? When he thought of ‘normal’ people and their ‘normal’ relationships, their love seemed of hardly any importance compared to what he thought he shared with John. Surely he and John were not _average_? Had John just implied that they would inadvertently end up being one of those unbearably dull couples after all? What reason would John _then_ have not to leave him??

The two arms were back around him now. “What’s the matter?” John whispered in his ear.

“You think we’re… average?”

John chortled. “No. We’re decidedly not average. At least you aren’t, Sherlock Holmes. Is that what you’re afraid of?”

“I… I don’t know. I was just afraid you didn’t love me anymore. Or would stop loving me soon.” His throat felt painful and swollen.

“I won’t. I promise I won’t. Oh, Sherlock.” John hugged him tighter and rocked them both slowly back and forth. “Sometimes I forget how new all of this is to you.”

As they sat in their bed with their arms around each other, Sherlock felt his adrenaline and stress hormones slowly start to seep out of his circulation and become replaced by a heavy and exhausted feeling throughout his body. He felt utterly stupid, but very happy to have been wrong.

After a while, John added, in a firm voice, “And as much as I love it when you wear lingerie, I am decidedly very much into men, or at least into the particular man I’m holding right now, thank you very much.”

Sherlock giggled, relieved, and John joined in.

Eventually, they lay down under the covers, still embracing; and soon after, both fell into a peaceful, deep sleep.

* * * * *

When he woke up, Sherlock found the other half of the bed empty. Of course; it was a Monday and John had a shift at the surgery. Bugger. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, feeling rather silly when he noticed he was still wearing his lace underwear. He smiled nevertheless as he took it off. He had been a complete fool, it appeared, both to initially have extrapolated their future from the first few weeks and then later to think that it would continuously keep going downhill once they were in a quieter phase. On the one hand, he wished he’d had a bit more relationship experience, but on the other hand, the idea of ever being with anyone else but John was quite preposterous and not worth considering in any universe.

Thankfully, John seemed to forgive his idiocy quite easily. And thankfully, Sherlock was usually a quick learner.

After putting on his dressing gown, he padded into the kitchen and put the kettle on. When he opened the box of teabags, however, it turned out to be empty.

Bugger again.

Once his mind was set on having tea, he bloody well wanted to actually drink some damn tea, so there was nothing for it but to go downstairs and ask Mrs Hudson.

His landlady was in the process of baking a cake as he entered her kitchen. She was just pouring some honey onto a table spoon above the bowl with batter. “Oh _hello_ , you. Lovely to see you up and about at this hour. Is John away?”

“Good morning, Mrs Hudson. Yes, he’s working. Actually, er, I’m out of tea bags, as it turns out, and I was wondering whether you could –”

“Oh, of course! You know what? Sit down and I’ll make you a cuppa right here.”

Sherlock pulled up a chair, seeing as he had no other plans anyway. As Mrs Hudson filled the kettle and put a tea bag in a flowery mug, she chattered about the cake she was baking and how she hoped it turned out better than the last recipe she’d gotten from Mrs Turner. “I’ve decided to replace the sugar with honey though. You see, I was at this country fair with my sister two weeks ago, in Barnet, and they had the loveliest flower stalls there that you’ve ever seen, and beautiful crafts of all sorts of things made from straw – the shiny, golden type, you know – but they also had a stand where they were selling honey, you see. And the ladies that were selling the honey told me all about its antibacterial properties. And antifungal too. It works against lots of things! It’s very healthy, really. So now at least we can feel a bit less guilty when we eat the cake.” She chuckled.

Sherlock smiled a polite smile. He really was very fond of Mrs Hudson, and if he had to listen to anyone nattering on about country fairs like this, he’d rather it was her.

“Maybe it could make my eyes better too,” she said, as she handed him the steaming mug. “They do desert me these days. Mrs Turner says it’s just old age. It comes to us all, doesn’t it? But I’ve never had any problems with my eyes before, you know? Would you like some honey in your tea?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, why not, Mrs Hudson.”

“So tell me, how are you and John? I’m just so delighted that you’ve finally found each other,” she beamed.

Sherlock felt his face crack into a smile at the mention of his lover’s name. “Very well, thanks. Very well indeed.”

Was he blushing? Actually, he didn’t care if he was.

* * * * *

The next day, late in the afternoon, the doorbell to 221B rang in a fashion that indicated urgency, even panic. Sherlock looked up from his magazine and briefly locked eyes with John. Could either be an exciting new case, or a hysterical client who would require John to patiently convince them to leave before Sherlock resorted to less friendly measures to dispose of them.

It turned out to be the former.

The moustached man that entered their room showed signs of both anger and grief. “Good afternoon,” he said politely, clutching his hat in front of his rather voluminous belly. There was sweat on his forehead, despite the relatively cool temperature for June. He had obviously been worried sick for hours, most likely about a child. Also, he was an earl.

Sherlock put away his magazine and stood. “Please, would Your Lordship sit down in this chair and tell us what the matter is?” He saw John eye him from the corner of his vision.

The earl nodded in acknowledgement and sat. “I’m sorry to barge in here like this,” the man said, clearly uncomfortable. “It’s just that… I’m not very strongly convinced of the investigative capabilities of the police anymore.”

John, who had taken a seat in his usual chair, said, “Let us see if we can be of any help, then… er… _Your Lordship_.”

“I would be ever so grateful if you tried. You see, my son has gone missing.” The earl had to take a moment to recover himself. “The school where he boards called this morning, asking if he had by any chance turned up at home! The bloody idiots thought he’d simply gotten homesick during the night and walked back to Holdernesse Hall, where we live. Well, obviously he hadn’t. So the police were called. It was only several hours later that it was discovered that the French teacher was also nowhere to be found.” He paused, visibly struggling to contain his anger. “The police have so far failed to find any lead at all to either of their whereabouts.”

“So, we can hardly do worse, then,” Sherlock said, in an attempt at levity, meant more than anything to suppress his own worry on the earl’s behalf. “I suggest we go to this school immediately, in order to take a good look around.”

“Good. Excellent,” the earl said, with a relieved nod.

They all stood.

“I offer ten thousand pounds to the man who can say where my son is. I hope that is a good enough incentive to try your very best, Mr Holmes.”

The ride to Priory School in the earl’s private car took less than an hour. During the ride, Baron Beverly, as he preferred to be called, showed them some pictures of his Arthur – a serious but happy looking boy with dark brown eyes – and told them all there was to know about his son. He was eleven years old and had only started boarding this year. His mother had recently left them and had moved to the south of France. “Edith loves Arthur very much, but didn’t cope with being a mother very well. She has Asperger’s Syndrome,” Beverly explained. In spite of these domestic troubles, Arthur was doing well enough at school. He especially excelled in languages and wanted to become a poet. “He has never run off or disappeared like this before,” the earl said. “It’s very much unlike him to make us worried.”

Every time his phone beeped, Beverly’s face went slack, the conversation stopped and he stared at the device in anticipation. But each time, it was only the police requesting additional information or consent for something, or just an unsuspecting business partner.

When they arrived at Priory School, the premises were still swarming with officers. There would only be a few more hours till dusk, creating a palpable nervousness in the air. Beverly led them to the DI in charge of the investigation, Lee, and announced to him in no uncertain terms that Mr Sherlock Holmes was to be given free rein and access to all parts of the operation.

“Ah, yes, the famous _consulting_ detective. My pal Greg Lestrade swears that you occasionally actually come in handy. A fresh layman’s perspective and all that,” Lee grumbled. It was clear that the man was more than a bit sceptical about this himself. He sighed. “Well, as long as you _behave_ ,” he said with a pointed look at Sherlock, “I _could_ pretend not to notice you.”

“Thanks,” John replied, when Sherlock remained silent. He was already observing the building and the window of Arthur’s dormitory, with the stout ivy plant covering the wall underneath – which could have facilitated his unnoticed exit. There was crime scene tape around an area below it, as there was also below another window further to the right, on the other side of the main entrance, in what was clearly the teachers’ wing – seeing as the windows there were bigger and farther apart. 

From a distance, he heard John assure the earl that they would let him know as soon as they found any clue at all. A moment later, John nudged his elbow. “Sherlock, the DI appointed this sergeant to fill us in on the facts.” Probably so as to minimise the effect of other officers getting annoyed at our asking questions, Sherlock thought. Efficient enough, though.

Sherlock turned to look at the man. In spite of little physical resemblance, he reminded Sherlock of Anderson at first sight. Something about his posture and his eyes.

“Hello, the name is Moore. I was asked to show you around, sir.”

Sherlock gave a curt nod by way of greeting.

“So the French teacher, a Steve Meredith, forty years old, is our main suspect at the moment. His room is over there.” Moore pointed to the right. “Arthur’s room is behind this window right here, as you might have guessed,” the man smirked. Sherlock tried hard not to roll his eyes at the man’s poor sense of humour, if that was even what it was. “Of the two boys he shared the room with, one has been in hospital with appendicitis since Saturday and the other one claims to be a very sound sleeper and to have heard nothing. The ivy below their window shows clear signs of someone having climbed it recently.” As they walked towards the entrance of the building, he continued, “A forced window has just been discovered to another boys’ room at the back, suggesting that the offender might have tried to take another boy first.”

Sherlock snorted. “And you still think the French teacher did it, in that case? You actually think he first left the building to enter one of the boys’ rooms on the first floor _through the window_?”

They all stopped walking. Moore turned down the corners of his mouth and shrugged. “Maybe he didn’t want to be seen on the corridor?”

“Yeah, because a teacher walking through the school looks so much more suspicious than one trying to climb in through a window.”

“You know what?” John intervened. “Why don’t you show us that window later, and lead us to Arthur’s room first?”

Moore gave Sherlock a scathing look as he spun around to head for the entrance once more. John, in turn, raised his eyebrows at Sherlock in warning, and briefly touched his hand as if to remind him that he would be right there with him and they would only have to endure the ignorant prick for a short time. Sherlock managed a tight-lipped smile at John, grateful that he was there. He realised that he was on edge not only because of the thrill of a new case, but also because he didn’t dare to think about the boy’s current situation. Every minute counted.

As they walked across the hall, up the stairs and down the dormitory corridor, Sherlock went over the options in his head. If the French teacher had abducted the earl’s son, he feared it looked very much like a sex offense, but if someone else had, it was more likely abduction for ransom. Unless the perpetrator had indeed first tried another window, which again made it look more like a pervert stealing a random kid. On the other hand, they could not entirely rule out tomfoolery; an innocent, though illicit, excursion of the boy himself, having gone out exploring in the night, perhaps stargazing, in which case he might just turn up when he got hungry and tired. Although to be honest, that would logically have happened hours ago already.

Sherlock made an effort to switch off the part of his brain that facilitated emotions and to focus entirely on the facts of the puzzle at hand.

“He actually has a _boyfriend_ , you know, this Meredith,” Moore sneered all of a sudden, as if that accounted for everything.

Sherlock gritted his teeth, but couldn’t prevent the response that popped into his head from leaving his mouth. “Ah, I take it you are, by contrast, _heterosexual_ and therefore naturally go around kidnapping little _girls_ all the time?” he snapped.

Moore huffed, visibly shocked at the suggestion, and turned to his colleague standing in front of Arthur’s room, mumbling something unintelligible.

Sherlock noticed John smirking at the floor.

Feeling a bit of the tension seep away, he let himself into the room and went to stand in the centre, to observe. There was only one advantage to being involved as late as half a day after the event in question had taken place, which was that forensics were done fingerprinting and photographing by then and the place was quiet and empty of people.

There were three beds, one to each wall except the one with the door. “That one’s Arthur’s bed,” the second officer said, from the doorway, as he pointed at the bed to Sherlock’s right. He seemed to have taken over Moore’s task for the moment. The bed was made, but by far not as tidily as the middle one, which clearly was the hospital boy’s. Probably done in a hurry. Or in the dark.

_Who makes up their bed as they’re being abducted?_

The third bed was unmade altogether. Its occupant probably never returned after finding out his one remaining dorm mate was missing, having left to alert the teachers.

Sherlock put on a pair of latex gloves he pulled from his pocket and opened the boy’s wardrobe. Interestingly, his coat was nowhere to be seen. Nor were his shoes. “Can I have a list of all the things that were taken from this room as evidence?” Sherlock asked the man in the doorway.

“Er, sure. I can get it for you, if you like. Though I’m quite sure it was a very short list. Only his hairbrush for DNA samples, his pyjamas for the sniffer dogs, and a flowery, red woman’s shawl that was on the floor behind that chair, as far as I’m aware.”

“So his coat and shoes were never here?” Sherlock inquired.

“I’m quite sure they weren’t, indeed.”

“And his pyjamas were found on his bed?”

“Yes, sir.”

Sherlock let these facts sink in for a second. “Looks like a very attentive kidnapper to me,” he mumbled.

“You don’t think he was abducted?” John asked, quietly.

“Let’s say I’m not ruling anything out yet,” Sherlock replied, still carefully looking around the room.

“His school bag?” Sherlock said, more loudly again.

“No, sir.”

Then, to John, “Either he was allowed to pack, or he left by himself.”

John nodded, contemplative.

A third cop could be heard approaching on the corridor and then greeting Moore. “The shawl has been confirmed as belonging to the boy’s mother,” the voice then said.

“Interesting,” Moore replied. “Has Lee put a team on tracking her down yet?”

“At it right now. Communication with France is proving a bit cumbersome so far, though. He’s having ferries, airlines, buses and trains checked now to see if she could have already travelled back to France this morning.”

Sherlock was meanwhile opening cabinets and drawers and looking behind beds and bedside tables. Just then, he pulled a piece of paper from inside Arthur’s pillowcase. It was a handwritten letter.

 _\-- To my dearest Arthur:_  
_I miss you so much. I could’nt resist coming back to see you again. Meet me in the grove of trees behind the school at midnight._  
_Lots of love and kisses,_  
_Mum_

“Well, this explains why he had time to pack,” Sherlock said, as he held up the letter to John. “Most likely fake,” he added, studying the handwriting once more and taking a quick snapshot of the note with his phone, before putting it into an evidence bag and handing it to the unsuspecting officers on the corridor. “Might want to make a habit of checking the bedding more thoroughly in future,” he grimaced. The officer that had been the last to arrive raised his eyebrows in shock as he looked over the letter, then went white and turned to hurry back down the corridor with it.

“Well, then,” Sherlock said to Moore. “Let’s have a look at that grove of trees first now, shall we?”

The man swallowed and fidgeted a bit, before saying, “Of course. This way.”

With the numbers of pupils trampling all over the grounds during breaks on a daily basis, it was no wonder that the grove contained all sorts of evidence, but none that Sherlock could pinpoint as pertinent to Arthur’s disappearance. He noted the little heap of cigarette butts – Marlboro Lights – and the brands of various sweet wraps that he spotted here and there, but otherwise there were no clues to be found without thoroughly combing out the whole area. He decided to leave that to the officers that were already arriving to the spot. He turned to Moore. “Could you show us Mr Meredith’s room now, please?”

“Certainly, sir. If you’d follow me.”

Once they arrived in the room in the other wing, it quickly became clear that the French teacher still had most of his clothes on the chair next to his bed and probably left only partly dressed. There were no coat or pyjamas to be found. Other than an unsurprising interest in French art, music and literature, and the fact that he was an seasoned chain smoker, not much could be learnt from his room.

“He only lives here during the week. Goes home to… er… his _partner_ in the weekends,” Moore said, a bit more subdued by now.

“Good. Yes. Now, let’s see about that window at the back,” Sherlock said amiably. “Maybe we can walk around the front of the building, so I can have a look at the cordoned off area below both their windows along the way?”

“Of course. This way,” Moore gestured, heading for the fire escape stairs at the end of the teacher’s corridor.

If Meredith was the one who had written the note to lure Arthur out if his room in the dead of night, he had been very shrewd indeed to make it look like he’d left unprepared and in a hurry, Sherlock thought. On the other hand, if he had actually left unprepared and in a hurry, what might have been the reason? Had he seen Arthur climb out of his room when he was smoking a late-night cigarette near his open window and gone after him? Had he then been abducted along with the boy, to eliminate him as a witness?

Although Sherlock did not entirely dismiss the possibility that the note might be genuine after all and that Arthur had simply been whisked off to France by his own mother, he saw no point in attempting to contribute to that line of investigation, seeing as the police were clearly so very enthusiastically pursuing it already. He still thought it most likely that a third, unknown party was involved in this.

The area within the crime scene tape under Meredith’s window was of course devoid of any kind of useful tracks by now. At any rate, it didn’t make sense for him to have somehow climbed down here, close as he was to the fire exit.

No new clues could be found under Arthur’s window either. The ivy definitely showed recent damage on branches of various heights, but nothing that indicated that it had been climbed by two different people. That did, of course, by no means rule out that possibility. Someone could still have entered the room via this route, taken the boy and left the note as a false clue.

By the time they arrived at the back of the building, where a ladder was still propped against the wall, blackbirds were already twittering in the darkening shrubbery, as dusk was threatening to set in. Sherlock climbed up to the window, glad to have his torch in his pocket. He instantly ascertained that someone had indeed tried to wrench the window open with a blunt object in at least three places. And it definitely looked as if they hadn’t had a torch with them, judging by the sloppiness of the breakage. Sherlock took out his magnifying glass and also the torch, as he would need it to be able to see clearly at a five times magnification that diffused and weakened the light twenty-five times. But before he’d even positioned it, he spotted something glistening in the light of the torch beam. Tiny droplets shone where the wood of the window frame had been damaged. _Serpula lacrymans_ , a fungus that grows on wood, its name meaning ‘making tears’. Also known as dry rot. Sherlock took a snapshot while continuing to project his light beam from the side, not that Lee and his morons would likely be very interested.

“Anything?” John called up at him.

Sherlock climbed down to show him and Moore the picture. “This window was forced weeks ago. There’s fungus growing on the surface of the markings.”

“Huh,” John huffed. “Probably just boys playing some prank on each other then, trying to break into one another’s dorm.”

Sherlock nodded. “Most likely.” As he looked towards the grove in the distance, he tried not to feel the desperation suffocate him. He had hardly anything to go on in this entire case. At least the ransom scenario was now by far the most likely.

There was no point in hanging around here; it was getting dark and there wasn’t any other logical place in or around the school to look for more clues anyway. Sherlock needed to see the boy’s house, Holdernesse Hall, learn more about him and where he came from. But it was too late to go there now, _dammit_.

Sherlock sighed and started to walk back around the dorm wing, towards the main driveway.

“You’re giving up then?” Moore smirked.

“No such thing. Don’t worry, I’ll let your boss know when I’ve solved it. Come John, let’s go,” Sherlock said, hooking his arm through John’s as they walked away together. He felt the excitement of a new case thrumming through him in spite of his frustration of having little to go on for now and the nagging feeling of worry about the boy’s fate.

“I’m quite sure we’re looking at an abduction for ransom,” he said to John, “the clues to which need to be found closer to home. We’ll go to Holdernesse Hall tomorrow morning. Nothing we can do in the meantime. Will you text Beverly?”

“Alright. Take-away?” John smiled.

“Excellent idea,” Sherlock smiled back.

* * * * *

Contrary to the previous days, that Wednesday dawned bright and sunny, making Sherlock and John even decide to leave their jackets at home. Holdernesse Hall turned out to be in the middle of renovations and building work when they arrived. The mansion was situated in a large clearing of a wooded area, an immense and immaculate lawn, geometrically interspersed with whipped-cream shaped buxus shrubs and two picturesque fountains left and right. Part of the Hall itself was covered with roses, most of them already blooming. To the right wall, there was scaffolding with men in hard hats and orange vests apparently replacing whole windows on all floors, and further across the lawn the stables were also undergoing some sort of renovation, with men carrying construction materials in and out.

“Nice,” John said, overseeing the property. “A bit big, but nice.”

“Let’s have a chat with one of these gentlemen first,” Sherlock said, as they walked up the driveway. One man carrying a chainsaw (who was rather stunningly handsome, Sherlock couldn’t help noticing) was just passing them from behind on his way to the stables, nodding to them in greeting. “Good morning, sir,” Sherlock said jovially. “On days like these, it’s not so bad having an outdoor job, is it?”

“Can’t complain,” the man replied with a smile.

“Lovely place, too, this here, isn’t it?”

“Most certainly is. What I wouldn’t give to live in a place like this myself,” he laughed, slowing down and turning around to face them properly. “A piece of heaven on earth, that’s what it is.” The man’s tanned and very muscular arms glistened with an invisible layer of sweat.

“Yeah. Sadly, we’re not all that lucky,” Sherlock said with a rueful smile.

“Some more unlucky than others,” the builder said, as something dark flickered across his face, before he merrily continued, “I especially love the roses. My mother’s name was Rose. She would have _loved_ to live in a house like this.”

“James!” a man called from the distance. “Get on with it, will you? We’re all waiting for that chainsaw over here.”

“Excuse me,” James said sheepishly.

“No, no, sorry to have kept you,” Sherlock said. “Have a good day.”

When James was safely out of hearing distance, Sherlock said to John, “Never hurts to make some friends among the local workmen.”

“I see. Is there any particular kink you’d like to tell me about?” John replied, not bothering to hide his grin.

“Don’t be ridiculous, John,” Sherlock grinned back, amused. “I only have a doctor/soldier kink, which I _think_ you’re already quite aware of. Now quickly change the subject before this becomes awkward.” They both pressed their lips shut to avoid giggling, and studiously looked around the grounds, each in different directions, as they continued walking up the path to the main entrance. Their light mood was however quickly replaced by a more heavy feeling as they approached the door behind which a family was missing their only son.

After making use of the big bronze knocker, they were shown in by a rather morose looking maid in her twenties, who brought them down a few corridors, as if against her will, and into a study, where a nerve-racked earl greeted them. “Anything new?” he asked, looking up at them with dark grey bags under his eyes that seemed to beg them to give him any kind of information at all.

“Nothing more than a few theories, I’m afraid,” Sherlock replied. “Which is why I requested to visit you here and have a look around, learn a bit more about Arthur and his family.”

The earl nodded and gestured for them to take a chair.

“Could you perhaps start by telling us a bit more about your wife, Edith?”

“You don’t seriously think that she’s involved, surely!” the earl exclaimed, indignant. “That handwriting was nothing more than a good forgery. I’ve spoken to her, and she’s just as worried as I am!”

Sherlock held up his hand. “No, I don’t think it was she who took your son. But seeing as the kidnapper apparently chose to use her as a red herring, I would like to know a bit more about her, and especially what information other people might have about her.”

“Right.” The earl pressed his chin to his chest in an apparent effort to will himself to calm down. “Edith and I… used to be quite happy together. She’s always been a bit difficult, in her way, mind, finding it hard to imagine another person’s viewpoint or feelings. That regularly caused conflicts between her and others; but we each had our own activities and interests that we occupied ourselves with and everything was fine. That is, before Arthur was born.”

Just then, the maid came back in with a tray with teacups, that she put on the earl’s desk. They waited while she poured them each a cup. “Anything else, Your Lordship?” Even in the two seconds she stood there waiting for his reply, she looked like she’d rather be anywhere else on the planet but in this room. She didn’t so much as look at the earl’s guests, letting her curly hair partially shield her eyes. “No, that’ll be it, Amy.”

When she’d left, the earl continued, “Edith is an artist. She grossly underestimated what it meant to have a child and she’s had several nervous breakdowns since then. There was a point where she could only look at Arthur when he was asleep. She would stand next to his bed, just looking, for an hour every night.” Beverly stared blindly into the distance for a few moments at this painful memory. “I tried to make up for the lack of attention he got from his mum, I really did. But last summer, we decided it would probably be better for everyone if he started boarding. Except then it turned out that Edith and I had grown apart to the point where, well… there was no love left.”

An awkward silence descended upon the room.

Arthur smiled at them from a sunny holiday picture on the side table, taken on the shore of a lake, presumably in Italy, judging by the colour of the sand and the height of the mountains in the distance. Just as in the description that the earl had given them, a woman that was presumably his mother was very aptly only partly visible in the background, with her back turned towards Arthur and the photographer. As Sherlock contemplated the level of coincidence in this piece of photographic symbolism, he became aware of a soft noise made by John shifting uncomfortably in his chair. Then he cleared his throat.

“Could you perhaps show us a bit of the house, and Arthur’s room?” John said.

Without much enthusiasm, the earl nodded and stood.

They walked down hallways, up staircases, past painted portraits of ancestors and relatives – and even the odd pet – until they arrived at the door to Arthur’s room, in the north wing.

When Beverly showed them inside, Sherlock’s heart briefly clenched at the palpable absence of the boy. There are few things more personal than a person’s private room – especially a child’s – full of all their beloved things: their dreams and passions pinned to the walls in the form of pictures and posters, teddies that were once gifts from loved ones and hence visibly cuddled to death, cherished purchases from souvenir shops abroad, stickers as rewards for bravery at the doctor’s and dentist’s stuck to the wardrobe doors. On display for all to see, although intended primarily for the room’s occupant himself.

There seemed to be a theme of futuristic science fiction.

“A Star Wars fan?” John asked with a faint smile, in an apparent attempt to break the silence.

Ah, that’s what that big poster and those little figures were from, then. Faintly rang a bell, somewhere at the very back of Sherlock’s mind. He looked around the room carefully, letting his eyes rest on each object individually before moving on to the next. There was nothing specific for which he was looking; it was just a matter of getting a good general impression of this boy, and storing data for future reference. The large number of teddies sitting in a corner of his bed indicated a level of tenderness and playfulness, the pictures of him and his horse just having won a prize showed determination and pride, the Star Wars posters were a sign of imagination.

When he and John walked back down the gravel path between the perfectly shaped buxus bushes and bustling workmen to where a cab was waiting for them, with no new clue whatsoever that could lead to the recovery of the boy, and no specific theories to occupy his mind, Sherlock felt a heavy blackness settle in his stomach. John laid a hand on his shoulder and looked at him with concerned eyes. “You alright?”

Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to answer. Instead, he just nodded and kept walking, towards the cab that would take them home, where he could descend into his Mind Palace to try and find the boy and bring him back to safety.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your lovely comments. They are the fuel that keeps me going. :)

When they got home, the first thing John did, was put the kettle on and make some cheese and pickle sandwiches. It was only just past noon, but they hadn’t eaten anything since early that morning before they’d left for Holdernesse Hall. As he pottered about in the kitchen, John observed Sherlock from the corner of his eye, worried. He’d seen Sherlock in a lot of different moods over the years, but he didn’t recognise this one. Sherlock had always eliminated all emotion when it came to his cases. Hell, when it came to anything at all. Except maybe boredom. Or scorn. He was quite passionate about those kinds of things. (Well, and, since this spring, love.) But this had nothing to do with any of those. He actually seemed concerned, distraught, even anxious. His frustration at his lack of specific theories seemed more pent-up than usual, as if he actually… _cared_.

Could this be some inevitable side effect of Sherlock opening his heart to John? Had that made him more prone to sentiment all along the line? And maybe more insecure? John thought back to their conversation about the frequency of their lovemaking and the misunderstandings surrounding it. Sherlock had actually gone so far as to doubt John’s attraction to him, and even his sexuality. It was almost as if that brilliant brain of his stopped working properly when things were concerned that were really important to him. John figured it was not all that different from the way you’re not able to see something clearly when it’s too close by. Maybe it simply proved that it’s the things close to home that reveal our humanity. Also, possibly, Sherlock’s. But why this case?

John took a hot mug and a filled plate to where Sherlock was sitting cross-legged on the sofa with his eyes closed. John knew better than to disturb him, so he just put the things on the coffee table in front of him, knowing that Sherlock would tuck in whenever he saw fit to come out of his mind palace.

That moment arrived sooner than expected.

“John.”

John looked up from his only half-finished plate at the kitchen table.

“I need you to pay a visit to the French teacher’s boyfriend. Find out anything you can that might shed some light on how and why he’s disappeared.”

John nodded. He was always glad when he could be of use during a case.

* * * * *

On the way to Steve Meredith’s house, John’s phone beeped. It was a message from Baron Beverly.

\- - Edith has been proven to be in her home in France at the moment. Thought I’d let you know. Anything new on your side?

Well, this information was not saying very much, certainly. At least thirty hours had passed since Arthur’s disappearance; more than enough time to travel back across the Channel.

He replied only to say he was on his way to speak to Meredith’s partner while Sherlock was continuing the investigation from home. John ardently hoped he could bring some data back to Sherlock that he could use in that mind palace of his.

Falling blossoms were gently descending on him in the light breeze when he rang the doorbell to the rather run-down apartment building. John was momentarily confused when the door opened to reveal a lanky, strawberry-blond boy whom he estimated to be in his late teens or very early twenties at the most. Did one of them have a son who lived with them? “Hi. John Watson. I’m investigating the disappearance of Arthur Beverly and Steve Meredith on behalf of Baron Beverly. Is it alright if I come in?”

The youth looked at him with sad eyes with bags underneath. “Yeah, sure.”

As they climbed the stairs to the tiny flat, it started to dawn on John what the boy’s relation was to Meredith. Once they sat, he asked, “So you live with him then? Just the two of you?”

He nodded, looking at the floor. The kid looked exhausted.

“So, er…” John cleared his throat. “What’s your name, actually?”

“Craig Welton.”

John scribbled down the name on a new page of his notebook. “Good. Craig. I know this must be difficult, especially as I may ask you some things that you have told the police already, but can you tell me anything at all about your partner, Steve, that could be relevant to his disappearance?”

“He always forgets to charge his phone,” Craig said, on the verge of tears. “I keep trying to call him, and the police have been trying to track his mobile signal, but he’s had it switched off all this time. I hate it when he does that. It’s because he forgets to plug it in.”

“So you’re really worried about him, then?”

A choked sob escaped the boy’s throat.

Stupid question. “He never before left like this for a couple of days without telling you?” John asked.

“No! Never.” Craig shook his head, frowning hard.

“And you haven’t had any kind of argument in the past few days?”

The youth huffed out a laugh. “Yes we did. Last Sunday evening, before he travelled back to work. About who had to dry the dishes. Same thing every time. The only thing we ever bicker about, really.”

John’s lips twitched into a brief smile and he nodded. “Listen, is there anyone you can think of who might possibly want to do him harm or play a nasty trick on him?”

With red-rimmed eyes, Craig forced himself to look up at John. “Steve is the kindest person you’ll ever meet,” he said, slowly. “He is helpful, and understanding, and sweet, and I wouldn’t know who in the world would ever want to do anything to him, _ever_.” He stared ahead, looking bewildered.

“I see.” John looked around, trying to reconcile all the different things he saw presented together in the same room. There was typical teenage stuff like some Disney figurines, a tiny Enterprise space craft and a poster of Spiderman, as well as an extensive collection of books on impressionist art and nineteenth century poetry. “So, er… how long have you two been together?” he asked.

“About a year now.” Craig wiped his face with his sleeve.

“And you moved in with him when?”

“Last January.” He looked away, biting his lip. “When things got rather… _unpleasant_ with my family, because of me coming out and all that, he offered to rent something together, so that he would also have a place to escape to on the weekends.” A nervous smile crossed his face, quickly morphing into a wry expression as he said, “This may be hard to understand, because of our age difference and all that, but _I really love him_. And not knowing where he is, or what happened to him, I just…”

“I do understand.” Naturally, John knew exactly what it was like to miss someone that badly without knowing what had happened to them and also how it felt when other people couldn’t grasp the depth of these emotions. John couldn’t come up with a single thing to ask Craig anymore and dug for his card in his inner coat pocket. Handing it to the lad, he said, “Please let me know if you remember anything that could be useful for us to know.”

Craig stared at the card. “Sherlock Holmes?” he said, appearing rather awed.

John smiled. “Yes, he’s my partner. And boyfriend.”

For the first time, Craig’s face lit up, and he let out a surprised ‘Oh!’

“Yeah, you’re not the only one with an unlikely love interest,” John smiled.

* * * * *

When he arrived back in 221B, John found Sherlock in exactly the same position as when he’d left, only now he was sitting in his chair next to the fireplace. Against expectation, he opened his eyes as soon as John came in, a faint smile flickering over his face by way of greeting. John walked over to him and briefly pressed his lips to Sherlock’s, at which Sherlock cupped John’s face with both hands, unwilling to let go. They gazed into each other’s eyes for a bit with their noses touching and their smiles increasing, before Sherlock settled on a last peck and let him go. John plonked down across from him.

“Well?” Sherlock asked.

“Not much,” John replied, wearily. “Although it has to be said he does like them young.”

“How young?” Sherlock sounded clipped.

“I’d say barely legal.” John pressed his lips together.

“So you’re not sure of his age. You didn’t ask?”

“No, seemed a bit rude. And there was no need, what with all the bloody Mickey Mouse and Spiderman merchandise all about the place.”

“Everyone has hobbies,” Sherlock countered. “Doesn’t say a thing about their age. Maybe he just looked younger than he was.”

“Yeah, well, either way, that doesn’t make a lot of difference for the point I was trying to make, does it?”

There was a short silence, in which Sherlock chewed his lip.

“Having said that,” John continued, “the impression I got was not that of an unhealthy relationship. At all, actually. Although again, that might not say everything. Tea?”

Sherlock nodded and John got up to put the kettle on. Nothing like a good cuppa to have a break and help organise your thoughts. While John was busy, Sherlock sauntered over to the kitchen table behind him, which was covered with papers and pictures related to the case. In a corner, John had noticed a neat pile with the stuff relating to the sadly unsolved Abergavenny case that Sherlock had taken down from the wall. Archive material.

Sherlock stood with his hands on the edge of the table top, leaning forward to oversee his newly gathered data, and John couldn’t take his eyes off him. The way his posture was tense yet gracious, the brilliance of his mind almost visible behind the sharp eyes viciously scanning the evidence. And his perfect, round butt sticking out ever so slightly towards him…

John casually closed the distance between them and gently rested his hands on Sherlock’s hips. Sherlock immediately relaxed into his touch, letting his head fall back so John could nuzzle his neck. John then let his hands roam over Sherlock’s belly, with one ending up stroking a nipple and the other one on Sherlock’s undeniably hardening bulge. John teasingly pressed his own now rather blatant erection against Sherlock’s arse, not bothering to suppress a soft moan. They had still never done it in this position and a wave of arousal hit him at the idea of bending his lover over right there at the kitchen table, without even having to get undressed properly. His hands came together at the buckle of Sherlock’s belt and he swiftly undid it while he gently moved against Sherlock’s arse, his prick now impossibly hard.

But then Sherlock pushed himself off of the table and turned to face him. “John, I want to look you in the eye while we do it,” he said quietly, touching his forehead to John’s.

“But that’s how we always do it.” John smiled, a bit shy. “I would just like to try it this way once, wouldn’t you?”

“Actually, I think I should put these papers up on the wall, add some structure to this case,” Sherlock replied, suddenly business-like. He wriggled out of John’s embrace, leaving him behind confused, as he nattered on, “and I want to go back to Priory School first thing tomorrow, have another better look around, maybe talk to some people.”

“Yeah, fine,” John nodded, shame and guilt crawling over his skin for his stupid obsession with penetration, as he tried to smile and ignore his disappointment and frustration.

He gave up trying about thirty seconds later, when he decided to slip to the bathroom to solve the problem of his throbbing erection by himself.

* * * * *

The second time they visited Priory School, the grounds were bustling with pupils rather than police. The younger kids were playing tag on the lawn, while older ones sat under trees, quizzing each other in the shade.

It was one of John’s frustrations with humanity: the fact that even after the most horrible crime – the degree of which in this case was still to become clear – people quickly resumed their daily activities as if nothing at all had happened. Life goes on, they said. And even though much could be said for that approach from a practical perspective, John was simply not good at it. That is, not good at pretending nothing happened any better than dealing with others who _did_.

At least the fruitless nervousness that Sherlock had had about him the previous day was now transformed into a more focused energy. “First, I want to go back to the grove of trees behind the school, where Arthur was told to meet his mum,” he said. “Then I’ll have a word with the caretaker. And maybe talk to some kids. They probably know more than the police do, by this point.”

They strolled over the paths that led around the back of the building to where white birches stood between lower shrubs of all sorts. Once more, they looked for clues all over the place, but more thoroughly this time, scrutinising every item of litter they encountered. John felt rather useless, wandering among the branches with his head bent low, knowing he was not half as able to read signs the way Sherlock could. Until his eye fell on a little box of prescribed medicine. Xanax. It was lying with the patient’s name and address facing up. ‘Edith Beverly, 4 Holdernesse Road’. “Sherlock!” he called, adrenaline pounding in his ears. “You might want to come and have a look at something over here!”

The sound of breaking twigs quickly grew louder as Sherlock clambered his way to John through the undergrowth, a hint of pride in his eyes at the fact that his partner had apparently found an important clue. When he kneeled to take a look at the box, he drew in a long breath that subsequently seemed to freeze him on the spot. “Did you touch it in any way?” he asked abruptly.

“No, I wouldn’t dare, naturally.”

“It was lying here exactly like this, then? Face up and all?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock took a quick photograph before getting out a pair of latex gloves to pick the box up. He held it up to smell it and wrinkled his nose. He then studied it on all sides, turning it this way and that. Finally, he opened it, to find there was an empty blister in there. The look on his face was one of Christmas anticipation. “John, what do you make of this?”

“Well, looks like it was Arthur’s mum after all, who waited here to meet him and lost this from her bag.”

“Exactly what the abductor wants you to think. This is a planted clue. The box is not wet enough to have been here since Monday night and also, it smells of litter. Who would ever keep carrying around empty medicine boxes anyway?” He smiled. The hound had finally found a trail.

“Amazing,” John said, momentarily forgetting to breathe as he looked at the miracle of a man that was his lover.

“Yes. Well,” Sherlock beamed, as he tried to act casual. “You can close your mouth now.”

John shook his head, grinning. “So now what?”

“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? This clue was planted by someone who had access to Holdernesse Hall’s rubbish bins. I need to go back there. But I’ll need a disguise first.”

So instead of talking to caretakers and pupils, they ended up going straight to the local charity shop to get Sherlock a suitable outfit, namely some rather awful jeans that were slightly too wide and also not quite long enough, a dull black, long-sleeved T-shirt and some yellow-and-green sneakers. The Boots shop next door provided the hair gel and a comb to make his hair look quite horribly straight and greasy and also some skin foundation to give his face a bit of a tan.

The end result was someone that even John hardly recognised as being the famous detective.

* * * * *

After their ways parted, John travelled back to London. He first went to take the medicine box to New Scotland Yard for fingerprinting, enjoying the impressed faces of the DI in charge and also Moore, who happened to be on duty. When he walked out into the now rather hot summer sun again, planning to hail a cab, he heard a familiar voice call his name.

“John!” It was Greg Lestrade, standing in the far corner of the entrance alcove, fag between his fingers.

“Hey, Greg, mate! How are you doing?” John asked, walking over to where Greg stood smoking. At least they were in the shade.

“Yeah, well, just killing time, you know, till a new murder comes along. Sometimes I’m buried up to my neck in work and sometimes there’s nothing for _weeks_.” He shrugged sheepishly. “But other than that, I’m fine, you know. Quite well, actually.” The smile that gradually took over his now flushing cheeks spoke volumes. “How about you? What brought you over here, anyway?”

“Oh, we’re on a case with Missing Persons. But are you trying to tell me that you’ve… found someone _special_?” John smiled back, raising his eyebrows.

Greg’s blushing notably increased. “Yeah, well. Yeah,” he said, grinning like a teenager.

“So tell me!”

“It’s actually… Molly Hooper.”

“Finally! About bloody time, mate.” John slapped him on the shoulder. He was genuinely happy for them.

“Yeah, well, a little over a week ago she finally took a hint and we went out on a date. It all started with an email correspondence about a mud stain, actually,” Greg smirked.

“Did it, now?” John said, smiling to himself.

“Yeah, which then increasingly turned into personal banter, from where one thing led to another. She was suddenly just… very open, it seemed. No longer as ridiculously shy as she always used to be.”

John bit his lips to control his grin, glad his little talk with Molly had apparently proved fruitful. “So you’re… officially together then?” he ventured.

“I guess, yeah.” Something about Greg indicated, however, that his joy at this was not entirely uninhibited. “She is really great, you know, but we’ve also had a couple of pretty far-reaching misunderstandings, and… It’s just, you know, being the old fogey that I am, and after my spectacularly failed marriage, I sometimes worry that maybe I just don’t _understand_ women, and it will end up all going down the pan again just like it has before.” He looked away, smoking the last bit of his cigarette.

John knew the feeling very well, and not just with women. Hell, with Sherlock, he didn’t get what went on in his lover’s head no less than eighty percent of the time.

Turning back to John, Greg laughed, “Aw, but I guess I should either stop complaining or just hook up with a bloke, like you!” He grinned. “So tell me, how are things now between you and the madman?”

“Very good, actually.” A smile automatically crept into John’s face at the mention of his lover. “Although I’m not sure that I don’t have that problem you just brought up, just because we’re both blokes.”

“Yeah,” Greg huffed, “I bet you probably do get your share of misunderstandings with _him_ , alright.” He shook his head, amused.

“We do,” John confirmed. Still, he knew beyond any doubt that he was in a better place than he’d ever been and he dared say the same thing was true for Sherlock. He and Greg stood there in silence for another bit, until John said, “Sometimes you just won’t understand each other, and maybe on some levels you never will, but that doesn’t mean you can’t love each other and be perfectly happy together.”

Lestrade smiled thoughtfully while he put out his cigarette, and nodded. “You know what, you might just be right.” After another pause, he said, “So you’re really happy with him, then.”

John felt his face crinkle again. “Yes. Very happy.”


	11. Chapter 11

The discarded beer bottle that Sherlock had found by the side of the road was the perfect addition to complete his disguise. He swung it back and forth a bit as he walked the last half mile to Holdernesse Hall, under an increasingly un-British, hot summer sun, repeating to himself what he was trying to be now. Jobless person, with nothing better to do than chat to anybody he came across, bored, inquisitive, drunk. In short, the ideal way to unabashedly ask impertinent questions and snoop around the estate.

When he approached the gate, he was already well in character. He casually sauntered up the main driveway, swaying his limbs a bit more than a sober person would. Not too far away, five of the workmen stood huddled around an apparently broken piece of equipment. Perfect. Sherlock strolled over, trying to overhear their conversation so he could chime in.

“Looks to me like that ring needs replacing,” one said.

“I’m telling you, it’s not the bleeding ring; it just needs that oil that came with it, the one that you bunch of morons managed to knock over and spill.”

“Still, that ring needs replacing.”

Sherlock decided this was his moment. “Good morrrrrning, you hard-working men! Having trouble with the machinery, eh? I’ll tell you where you can find all the rings and various types of oil your hearts might desire. There’s a shop not ten miles from here. Cartman’s.” He’d seen it from the train, and it had looked like one of those shops that sold absolutely anything a handyman could ask for.

Sherlock quickly turned out to be right in thinking these workmen weren’t locals. They seemed glad with the information. While they mumbled their thanks and continued debating whether they needed just the ring, just the oil, or both, and who was going to get it, Sherlock noticed something from the corner of his eye. The handsome fellow he’d chatted with on Wednesday – James, was it? – was tucking away something that looked like an old handkerchief. It took Sherlock a second to realise what had been special about the antique-looking piece of cloth. It had the Holdernesse coat of arms on it: the exact same three bears that could be seen carved into stone above the main entrance of the Hall.

Had this builder sneaked into the house and stolen this handkerchief, what, as a souvenir? Somehow, it didn’t seem very likely – unless the man was a kleptomaniac. Which was easy enough to find out. Or was he hiding something inside of it? A valuable silver spoon? No, not cutlery: too risky sticking that into your trouser pocket, where it would easily get bent and lose its value.

During all these considerations, Sherlock made sure he stayed in character, repeating several times where the shop could be found, what it was called and that they definitely had _everything_.

When one of the men left to get both the ring and the oil (sensible, as it had probably been the lack of oil that had worn the ring), Sherlock entered the second phase of his mission. “So, you gentlemen have definitely found yourselves a nice workplace, eh? Wouldn’t mind spending my days here myself. Ha-ha! So are they treating you well, the snobs that live here, eh? Are they nice?”

“Oh, the earl is friendly enough,” one of the men said, amiably.

“And the lady has left, so we don’t have to worry about _her_ anymore,” said another, between coughs.

“What did she ever do to you, then?” said a third. “She was a bit weird, is all. Not unkind or anything.”

“Yeah, and she had nice boobs, didn’t she, Rob?” the second one teased.

“Nice boobs!” Sherlock laughed, stupidly. “I’ll tell you who else has nice boobs! That _maid_ who works here! Have you seen her?” Sherlock had no idea whether she actually had nice boobs or not, but since taste could always be debated anyway, he took the risk to use this segue to steer the subject to the Hall’s staff.

“You mean the old one with the _big_ tits?” the first man laughed. “Or the young one with the small, _perky_ tits?”

“Both!” Sherlock roared, adding a hysterical edge to keep the spirit up.

The men grinned.

“Oh, the older one is a hag alright,” James said. “Thinks it’d kill her to say hello. Always walks straight past us without so much as a glance.”

“Arrives and leaves at the exact same time every bloody day, like clockwork,” said the second man, before bursting out in another nasty coughing fit.

“And the younger maid, then?” Sherlock ventured. “With the curly hair? Seemed a right snob to me when I met her the other day. Much like the older lady you just described.”

“Amy? Nah, she’s alright. Turns to ice when you try to flirt with her, though. I wouldn’t recommend it.”

In the meantime, the men had started picking up their tools again and were now about to turn back to their duties. In all this dispersed movement, Sherlock saw his chance to pickpocket James’ handkerchief, while effectively creating a bit of a diversion by boasting loudly about how he was definitely going to try _and succeed_ at seducing Amy, seeing as how irresistible all women always found him. (He smiled inwardly as he imagined John witnessing the scene, and the way he would press his lips together to stifle his giggles while turning his head away like he always did.)

“Yeah right. Good luck, mate,” Rob smirked as he walked away, following the others.

Sherlock shrugged and casually strolled over to a quiet corner near the stables, away from the stable’s entrance and out of the line of sight of the builders. There, he sat down and took out the borrowed handkerchief, carefully folding it open. It didn’t contain anything, nor did it look like it recently had. It looked at least three decades old, and cherished – although it could have done with a wash. Sherlock produced his phone, took a picture of the cloth and a close-up of the neatly embroidered coat of arms, before hiding it back in his sleeve. He then ambled back onto the lawn, exaggeratedly studying the trees above him and looking up at the house. When he caught sight of James from the periphery of his vision, he made sure to inconspicuously get near enough to him for his next move. Sherlock stooped, pulling the handkerchief from his right sleeve with two fingers of his right hand and pretending to have just picked it up from the floor, as he called, “Hey! You lost something!”

James jerked his head around and widened his eyes at the sight of what Sherlock was holding out to him. As he snatched it from Sherlock’s hand, Sherlock asked jokingly, in a low voice, “So, have you nicked any other nice souvenirs from the house, eh?”

If looks could kill, Sherlock would have been stone dead that instant. _Interesting_.

“I. Did. Not. Steal. This,” James spat through gritted teeth, hatred still flaring in his eyes. He rapidly tucked his possession safely away before brusquely turning around and disappearing into the stables.

Sherlock decided to venture after him to see what he would do next. He needed more data to form a theory about his unusual behaviour. The minute he casually stepped inside, however, ready to strike up some random conversation with the men he would encounter there, he saw James slipping straight out through a back door. Sherlock quickly feigned having walked in by mistake and rushed back outside the way he’d come, then ran around the back of the building. He arrived at the corner just in time to see James stride towards the rear of the Hall. Sherlock stepped back for a second for fear of being seen, should James happen to look back. Only half a breath later, when he crept forward again, the man was nowhere to be seen. Sherlock quickly followed in the same direction James had gone, alongside the back of the house, and rapidly decided there was only one possibility. He’d entered the Hall through the grey door not five metres away from him, leading into the north wing.

Sherlock tried the handle.

It opened.

The next moment, he was as lost as Alice had been in Wonderland upon reaching the bottom of the rabbit hole. He found himself in a corridor with lots of doors, all similar-looking and none giving any clues as to where the builder had disappeared to. But knowing that he’d entered not only the house, but also one of the rooms, was enough of a good catch as far as today’s quest for intelligence went, anyway. So when Sherlock heard a lady's footsteps approaching around the bend at the far end of the corridor, he decided he wasn’t going to risk getting caught trespassing in this disguise and silently left the way he’d come: out of the door, and off the premises onto the sun-drenched country road, back into civilisation – facts spinning through his head and slowly coalescing into preliminary theories.

* * * * *

Surely his skin could melt any minute now. He had only been lying on the sofa back at 221B for as long as it had taken John to pour him a glass of ginger beer – with ice – but already the effect of the refreshing shower he’d just taken (primarily to wash the hideous hair gel out of his hair and get the eerie fake tan off his face) was beginning to wear off due to the increasing afternoon heat.

Sherlock wearily tilted his head to look up at the evidence wall above him and in particular the picture of the handkerchief (which he’d printed out first thing as soon as he’d gotten home – even before his shower). Then his eyes drifted to a post-it labelled ‘maid Amy’, and from there to the picture of the empty medicine box, just below an image of the school and next to Steve Meredith’s name. So many details, so much data, now it was time to bloody _find_ the boy and bring him back home! _Dammit_.

After setting Sherlock’s drink on the coffee table, John sat down on the other end of the sofa, forcing Sherlock to pull up his legs. He rested one hand on Sherlock’s knee, a subtle but calming touch that grounded him. John looked down at him fondly, without asking any attention. His perfect, kind, and wise lover. A steadfast, comforting presence, with a perfect instinct of what to ask and what not to ask of Sherlock. He softly smiled up at John, letting his worries drift away for a bit. John took this as an invitation to let his other hand rest on Sherlock’s thigh and to gently caress him there. Then again, maybe he was rather explicitly asking for it, lying there in just his pants. He still had to get used to John being genuinely attracted to him and wanting to _touch_ him, in a sexual context as well as outside of that. He closed his eyes and relaxed his shoulders back into the cushions as John’s hand brushed the little hairs on his leg.

“Believe it or not,” John said, audibly grinning, “but Greg and Molly actually got together.”

It took Sherlock several seconds to realise which Greg John was talking about. _Lestrade, of course_. “Really?” He opened his eyes. “Makes sense,” he shrugged. It was usually a mystery to him what people saw in each other, but in this case the pairing intuitively seemed quite logical.

“I’m so happy for them, you know,” John said, dreamily. “I think they make a great couple.” He shifted a bit so he could fondle Sherlock from a more comfortable angle. “I’ve been _hoping_ they would get together,” he said, letting his fingers dance over Sherlock’s skin. “Might actually have encouraged it.” There was now a decidedly proud smirk on his face.

“Did you, now?” Sherlock smiled back.

John pushed his lower lip forward, feigning indifference, as he said, “I just wanted to make sure she’d stop ogling my boyfriend all the time. _Because he’s mine_.” With a playful growl he softly gnawed at Sherlock’s knee. Sherlock giggled and briefly lifted himself to a half-sitting position to pull John back down on top of him.

They lazily nuzzled each other’s necks as their arms encircled one another. As they lay there, peacefully, Sherlock considered how the human longing for intimacy could manifest itself in such different ways, the beauty and tenderness of this moment a stark contrast to what possibly could still be a sex offence being committed right under their noses against Arthur Beverly. He still cringed every time he thought of that possibility and tried to tell himself that the recently emerged facts did not at all point in that direction, what with the perpetrator taking the trouble to plant a false clue. Nevertheless, the worry was like a persistent knot in his stomach that suffocated his thought processes like a constrictor snake.

And he hated being crippled like that.

John then took his face in both hands and pressed a kiss to his lips, bringing Sherlock back to the present and away from useless worries. Sherlock allowed his mind to drift and his body to relax, knowing that his brain would subconsciously continue to process data and connect threads regardless, or actually even better, when not consciously trying to think. Slowly, John kissed a trail down his throat, then down his chest, taking the time to worship every square inch of skin that his lips touched.

It was still rather overwhelming to Sherlock to be loved like this. To have someone quiet his racing mind and make him feel light and heavy at the same time. With every cell in his body, he wanted this to never end, for John never ever to go away.

How many days had they been together now? Sherlock made a quick calculation. Seventy-nine days. Next month, on 2 July, would be their 100-day mark. Although of course, they had been together much longer, in a manner of speaking. Almost five and a half years. Well, not counting the two years he’d been away. Sherlock shivered, and not because of the way John was tickling his stomach with his nose. He felt a fresh surge of apprehension creep into his only just calmed-down mind. He suddenly desperately needed to be sure they would _never_ be separated again. Never. These feelings that John evoked in him, of being safe and cherished, had become one of the bare essentials of life. How did people _live_ like this, he wondered, not knowing whether their loved one would one day simply walk out of their lives? Not knowing whether harsh words spoken without thinking might inadvertently drive them away forever?

Slowly, his breathing slowed back to normal as the one obvious and perfect plan presented itself in his mind. It crystallised within seconds, bright and clear.

He would ask John to marry him.

It was the only way to let John know how he really felt, what he really wanted. Relief washed over him as the decision took shape in his mind. He knew the perfect place to propose, a quiet tea garden just outside London called The Golden Beehive, where his parents had taken him and Mycroft a couple of times when he was little. It was a picturesque location surrounded by hawthorn trees and intersected by elaborate flowerbeds; and they had the best scones he could remember ever having eaten. And 2 July would be the perfect day. Sherlock smiled. He would make a reservation as soon as John was out of the room, so it would remain a surprise.

John was, however, for the moment still very much in the same room, namely sitting on Sherlock’s outstretched legs and deliciously nuzzling his lower belly. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock’s cock had become quite hard from all the attention lavished on the area around it. Sherlock heard a low moan escape his own throat. Ever so gently and ever so slowly, John – perfect, perfect John – moved over to the bulge in Sherlock’s pants and lazily ran his cheek and chin alongside it, while his hands kept caressing Sherlock’s hips and flanks. He then softly pressed his lips to where the fabric stretched taut over Sherlock’s cock, reverently taking all the time in the world. As Sherlock imagined the two of them in the pretty tea garden, in the shade of the bird-filled trees, he surrendered to the sensations John was eliciting in him.

Minutes later, hands were pulling down his pants, and his bollocks were being gently peppered with kisses. There were soft, careful palms and a warm tongue and mouth, all taking turns to shower his cock with exquisite sensations. Tenderly. Excruciatingly slowly. Unceasingly. Until the build-up became too much to bear and John started having a hard time keeping Sherlock fixed in one place with his weight on his legs. With a satisfied grin on his face, he took pity on Sherlock, taking him in as deep as he could. He didn’t even need to suck, because Sherlock was already there, waves of bliss crashing over him as the world turned completely blank.

* * * * *

Sherlock was still on the sofa, dozing, drifting in and out of the dream version of his Mind Palace, and John was pottering about in the kitchen, preparing dinner, when the sound of John’s phone rang through the flat. Sherlock gradually opened his eyes to see John raise his eyebrows at the screen. “It’s the earl.” John picked up in speaker mode, holding the mobile in front of him so that Sherlock could hear.

“Hello.”

“Good afternoon, Mr Watson. Baron Beverly speaking.”

“Afternoon.”

“Since I’m assuming that the police are not passing you information directly, I thought I’d call to let you know that the French teacher has been found. He claims to have seen Arthur climb out of his window, alone, and went after him. Then he followed him around the back of the school and onto the moor, presuming that’s where he’d gone, but never saw him there. After walking for a good bit in the direction of what he says looked like a moving flashlight, he sprained his ankle so badly he couldn’t walk. He had to crawl back to the road, which took him three days. He’s in hospital, dehydrated.”

John and Sherlock looked at each other. “Oh, wow. Thanks for letting us know, indeed,” John said. “That is very interesting information.”

Sherlock lifted himself from the sofa to stand next to John, as the earl said, “By the way, I heard from the DI that you found a box of Xanax of Edith’s behind the school this morning. So do you still think she has something to do with it?”

“Not at all, Your Lordship,” Sherlock said, moving closer. “With the police so diligently running after her all around France, I thought I’d focus on alternative theories, closer to home. When the box turned up, it was instantly clear to me that it was a planted clue to try and have me start running after the same shadow.” He glared at the phone. “Did the police not tell you that the box could not possibly have been dropped there by Edith herself? It was not moistened by dew, even though it had supposedly been there for two nights, and it smelled of garbage. It has to have been fished out of your rubbish bins yesterday at the earliest. Which is why I would very much like to visit Holdernesse Hall again first thing tomorrow, if convenient.”

“Oh!” There was a short silence. “Yes, of course. I’m so glad I hired you, Mr Holmes. Thank you for everything that you’re doing to try and trace my Arthur.” His voice sounded strangled as he mentioned his son. “See you in the morning then. Around half nine?”

“Excellent, yes,” Sherlock replied at the phone. “See you then.”

* * * * *

The night was hot and uncomfortable. Sherlock tossed and turned for what seemed like ages. John, of course, was fast asleep. Naturally, these meteorological circumstances were nothing compared to what he had endured abroad.

When Sherlock finally did fall asleep, his dreams were restless and strange. After a frantic chase where Edith Beverly was running after him through the streets of Toulouse with a French baguette in her hand from which she fired shots at him, he was suddenly back at Baker Street, though not in 221B, but in the 221C flat, in the basement. The room he was in, however, looked very much like the bedroom at 221B. The bed was definitely identical. He was in the bed, with John, and Sherlock was lying on top of him. The next moment, John’s legs were spread wide on either side of his own and he was inside of John, topping for the first time. Instantly, he was frantically slamming into him, without restraint. It felt fantastic. Sherlock realised he wasn’t being careful the way John always was, but he seemed unable to do anything about it. He looked up and found to his horror that John’s face was contorted in pain, but still he didn’t know how to stop, or even slow down. John cried out, and the next thing he knew Sherlock was falling into a burning abyss, falling and falling, his arms flapping wildly in a way that felt scarily familiar and real, his coat and scarf billowing frantically behind him, on fire, as he crashed onto the rocks of hell beneath and he was reduced to dust and nothingness.

Sherlock woke up gasping for breath, soaked in sweat and with his legs tangled in the sheets.

John was peacefully asleep beside him.

Thank god, it hadn’t been real.

Sherlock sat up, and stared into the darkness while he focused on the calm and reassuring sound of John’s quiet and regular breaths.

He didn’t go back to sleep.

* * * * *

When he walked up the driveway of Holdernesse Hall the next morning, wearing his suit again (slightly sweaty from the clammy train journey), Sherlock casually greeted the workmen that he’d interacted so elaborately with the previous day when he’d been in disguise. Of course, none of them suspected he was the same man. Meanwhile, Sherlock’s eyes scanned the grounds and anything that moved on them. There seemed to be one builder less than before. After a simple process of elimination, Sherlock realised that the one that had been coughing so loudly was nowhere to be seen. The older maid crossed his path and nodded curtly. The door was opened again by Amy, who, once more, appeared to avoid eye contact at all costs, and who silently disappeared the minute she’d shown him to the earl’s study.

The reason Sherlock had wanted to come back here was to get a good look at the part of the building where he’d lost James. It had been easy enough to deduce that that corridor must be located below the one that Arthur’s room was in, so the best approach seemed to simply ask to see his room again and then find an excuse to walk back via the lower corridor.

So he did.

He carefully mapped the entire building in his head as the earl led him over stairs, through doors, past alcoves, while trying to get as much information as possible about the rooms they passed by through innocent small talk. The earl pointed out his wife’s art room and the servants’ rooms in the corridor concerned and even showed him the billiard room at the far end, from which one could see most of the rear garden as well as part of the stables.

Just for good measure, Sherlock had a look at the bins behind the Hall as well, although there was of course little to deduce there. They were outside and anyone could gain access to them.

“I should like to observe everyone in and around the Hall for several days,” Sherlock at last told the earl. “And I have something in mind that will enable me to do so without attracting any attention to myself. It will, however, require Your Lordship’s convincing the building contractor to hire me as a self-employed builder and add me to his crew to replace the workman who has fallen ill with a chest infection. Does Your Lordship think that can be arranged?”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers, so here's the last chapter of Part Two. I hope you're enjoying this story so far. (If you do, I love hearing what you like about it in a comment! :D)  
> I have to warn you that this chapter is slightly angsty though... but of course all will be well in the end (spoiler, sorry).
> 
> All five remaining chapters (i.e. all of Part Three) are now finally in the process of beta'ing and final editing and I'm planning to post one every two or three days from now on. :)
> 
> After that, I really need a holiday... and guess what, I'm having one right then too! ;D

Saturday dawned cloudy and wet after a nightly thunderstorm. John was still half asleep when he noticed he was chilly. He turned around to his other side and hugged Sherlock from behind.

Better.

He nuzzled Sherlock’s shoulder, breathing in his wonderful scent as he pressed his chest close to Sherlock’s warm back. Not entirely coincidentally, his morning wood aligned perfectly with Sherlock’s bum crack. Without thinking, he undulated his hips to create some welcome friction. That felt good. He dozed off again, dreaming about a deserted beach, with not a soul in sight but for Sherlock and himself, where they lay on the soft sand, making love.

He woke up again when Sherlock somewhat forcefully grasped his arm. John stopped moving his hips, realising in that instant that he’d been rather enthusiastically humping Sherlock from behind. He had one hand on Sherlock’s upper thigh, fingers hooked around the waistband of his pants, apparently in the process of pulling them down.

“I’d rather not,” Sherlock said, flatly.

John blinked himself to fuller wakefulness.

“Not in this position,” Sherlock added.

John frowned. “Okay.” He carefully retracted his hands.

There was suddenly an awkward silence, in which no sensible course of action would occur to John. Sherlock rolled onto his back and lay staring blankly at the ceiling. John let himself fall onto his back too, trying not to feel ashamed about something he’d done without being fully conscious in the first place and which was not such a shockingly strange thing to do with someone you were already having sex with anyway. Still, he felt stupid and more than a bit embarrassed.

After one or two minutes, John decided to get up and make them some coffee.

The rest of the morning, Sherlock appeared to pretend nothing had happened. John, however, felt rejected in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time and he wasn’t sure why it meant that he was seemingly carrying a giant rock in his stomach.

After lunch, though, when John finally plonked down onto the sofa – a cup of tea in one hand and his newspaper in the other – Sherlock all of a sudden slammed shut the book he’d been reading and sprang from his chair to sit next to him. He pressed his side to the backrest and pulled up one leg so that he was directly facing John. He then rather elaborately pursed his lips before sucking them in, just staring at John, clearly anxious. He then looked around the sofa, as if trying to find the words there that he was looking for, his eyebrows travelling down and back up his forehead several times before he finally spoke.

“John, I’ve lied to you.” Sherlock’s gaze fluttered from John’s knees up to his face and back again. “That one time when you asked me if I’d ever bottomed with anyone before and I said no, I lied. And then I lied about it again two weeks ago when I claimed I’d never had any sort of sex with anyone else, ever. It’s just that… I was fourteen, and… my geography teacher… I used to really like him… looked up to him, in fact, and I used to help him out sometimes with experiments, you know, in the storeroom... never once realising...” He swallowed and looked down again, focusing on his own hands now.

With the force of a rocket smashing into a planet, the realisation of what Sherlock was trying to say suddenly hit John. His eyes shot open wide. “Oh fuck, Sherlock, no, no, no. You’re not trying to tell me... _no_. Oh god, come here.” He hugged Sherlock, pulling him as close to him as possible as his entire universe shifted into a different perspective, with the force – and noise and dust – of a tremendous earthquake inside his head. The only thought his mind seemed capable of that first minute was _‘Christ no’_. This was something he wouldn’t wish for his worst enemy, and knowing that someone had done that to Sherlock, to _his_ Sherlock… He felt anger welling inside him, competing with the intense grief that had already settled in his throat.

_How could someone have done that to him? How?!_

John stared dazedly at the patch of curls his face was pressed against, unseeing. He had always known that Sherlock was damaged somehow, and he now very much blamed himself for never stopping to think, _really think_ , how that could have happened. Suddenly, all the puzzle pieces were falling into place with painful clarity: Sherlock being distant and harsh to most of the outside world, Sherlock abhorring emotions, Sherlock not understanding relationships…

John squeezed his eyes shut. All he wanted right then was to hold Sherlock in his arms until forever, and keep him in a protective bubble so that nobody could harm him ever again. As he rested his forehead against Sherlock’s temple, John could feel his eyes burning and soon hot tears were spilling down his face. He softly stroked Sherlock’s back in a repetitive, comforting rhythm, as the new information gradually settled in his mind.

After a good while sitting there like that, Sherlock’s tears finally came also. Silently at first, until his crying reached his heart and several proper sobs escaped his chest. As devastated as John felt, he was in a way also awed that Sherlock felt safe enough with John to fall apart in his arms, for what was likely the first time in decades. Strangely, it was possibly the most precious thing that Sherlock had ever given him. And John cherished it like he would a wounded little robin, nurturing it while giving it the space it needed.

They remained on the sofa for a very long time, embracing and occasionally wiping away each other’s tears in quiet resignation.

Eventually, John said, “I think we should get some fresh air. I know _I_ could definitely use some.” He noticed his voice sounded shaky and foreign. Unsurprisingly. “How about we go for a walk on Hampstead Heath?”

Sherlock nodded and shrugged. “Okay.”

It was as if everything between them was different now, even though nothing had changed.

They held hands in the cab like frightened school children; Sherlock numb after having finally released his emotions, John clenching his other fist with more force than would be required to strangle the toughest geography teacher in the country. John very much doubted that anyone had been there to hold Sherlock’s hand back then, after it happened. He had so many questions, but none of them were worth asking.

Once they were sat on a wooden bench, looking out over the low, rugged hills covered with long grass, interspersed with clumps of trees and with ancient woodlands in the background and dark grey skies beyond, John spoke through gritted teeth, “What that _bastard_ did… I think it’s the single most despicable crime a person can commit, especially against a _child_.” He was positively trembling now, rage uncontrollably building up inside him, but with no one there to aim it at. “Does he even know--”

“He’s dead now,” Sherlock interjected calmly. “It happened a long time ago, John.” Sherlock seemed a lot more composed already. “You know, nobody has ever been angry like this on my behalf,” he said softly. “Seeing your anger and the way this affects you, makes me feel like less of an idiot.”

“Why would you feel like an idiot?” John asked, incredulous.

“For having let it happen. And for having let it affect me, I suppose.”

“Sherlock, I swear to god, if the man hadn’t been dead already, I would find him right now and strangle him.”

A wry smile flickered over Sherlock’s features. After some silence, Sherlock said, hesitatingly, “You could say, I suppose, that I’m indirectly responsible for his death.”

John gaped at him with a small frown.

“I made sure he would never teach again. Found out he’d committed plagiarism on his Bachelor thesis, so his teaching qualification was withdrawn. He became a bus driver. Got killed in a road accident.”

When John didn’t say anything, he went on, in a bored voice, “Just a regular accident, John. I had nothing to do with it.”

Even though John would not have blamed him, _at all_ , it was still a bit of a relief to hear that Sherlock hadn’t committed an equally severe crime in revenge.

“It’s just that, you know, he wouldn’t have been in that place at that time if it weren’t for me.” Sherlock said, shrugging, as he looked into the distance.

John let out a nervous giggle, which, however, faded quickly. Sherlock took in a deep breath just as John let out a long sigh. They glanced at each other, and then John very carefully took Sherlock’s hand in his. They continued to sit there like that for what felt like hours, staring out over the heath even well after the dark clouds started to release their superfluous water. Only when they were threatening to become drenched to the skin, did they leave the tranquillity of nature to quietly head back into town, back home.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, at Holdernesse Hall, a letter was brought to the earl on a silver tray. Without paying much attention to the clumsy writing on the envelope, Beverly slit it open and absent-mindedly started reading the awkwardly formatted letter inside.

_He is not your oldest son. I have a right to half the inneritans. Or more, even, for letting me and me mother live in povarty all those years. Change your will to inclood me, and let me innerit Holdernesse Hall. Then your other son will live. Do not tell anyone about this, or you wil never see him back. If you agrey and have made arranchments with your salliciter to change the will, stick a rose behind the coat of arms above the main entrence. Then I will give you a note with my name for the will. It will be no use having me arrasted, as then your yongest son will starve to death. Simply do’nt tell the police anything, or that privit detective, and your boy will just come walking back home as if he’d mearly bin lost on the moor. I’m not a bad man, Mr Beverly, but when, thru a coinsadens, I found out just how much I’ve been wrongd (thinking al this time you were perhaps just as poor as us) I felt I needed to do something. I didn’t think you wood listen to me if I just rang your doorbell and asked. I’m taking good caer of little Arthur, my half-brother. You’ve nothin to worry about if you give me what I’m rightfolly entiteld too. I think I desarve a proper house as compensershun for living in a hovel the first 20 years of my life. Do’nt you?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [19 July] Sorry folks, contrary to what I wrote at the top earlier, the next chapter is still not ready for posting. :( I still really really hope to be able to post all remaining chapters before the end of this month, but I have to be realistic and admit that there is a tiny chance that I won't make that and it might be somewhere in the first half of August... :(
> 
> But rest assured that they are written, only in the process of beta'ing. This is not one of those never-ending WIPs. ;)


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, sorry for letting you wait over a week in the end, but here's the next chapter, finally. :)
> 
> (More angst though, I'm afraid... However, the happy ending is only four chapters away. :D)

**Part III**

It had been twenty-six hours and roughly fifteen minutes since John had known.

Sherlock hadn’t planned to tell him. Not really. The idea had occasionally crossed his mind, but had been dismissed each time without too much thought. There simply hadn’t appeared to be any point in informing him. But yesterday, it had suddenly seemed like the logical thing to do. Sherlock didn’t want John to make incorrect assumptions whenever Sherlock felt awkward during their lovemaking, which was bound to happen more often. John might think he did something wrong, when he didn’t, or that Sherlock didn’t want him, which he did. And weren’t relationships all about being open and honest?

Initially, it had felt surprisingly purgative to cry together uninhibitedly; to finally give in and show his tears to someone – and especially to see _John’s_ tears over this. And the way his fist clenched at his side. Both of those things had been a bit of a shock to Sherlock, but one that frankly made him feel less silly about the whole thing, which was nice.

But the clenched fist hadn’t gone away since then. It was still there every time John got up from the table to clear away the dishes, every time he waited for the kettle to boil or walked across the flat to fetch something.

Sherlock fidgeted with the hairdresser’s cape around his shoulders and looked at his worried frown in the mirror, as the barber proceeded to trim his hair. Sherlock had figured that one aspect of his disguise for his undercover work as a builder might as well be a regular haircut (which was long overdue anyway and which usually tended to alter his appearance quite a bit already), even though most of his hair would be covered by the cap that he was planning to wear on the job. While he watched the amount of curls that lay scattered over his cape gradually increase, Sherlock pondered the transience of life and how the nature of relationships was just as changeable as people’s physical appearances, even though they were rarely altered as deliberately. After having hugged Sherlock and held his hand pretty much throughout the previous afternoon, John had started to become distant by the time evening had come. He hadn’t touched Sherlock anymore, not during the night, nor this morning. Sherlock felt a sense of shame creep into him when he thought about it. He had become someone different to John, and he had been a fool not to anticipate that.

“This the right length then, sir?”

“Er, yes, yes, certainly.”

“Alright sir, I’ll go fetch the curl balm for the final touch then. Won’t be a moment.”

* * * * *

Stupidly, he kept forgetting he was wearing glasses during the train ride to Holdernesse that Monday morning, and bumping his hand to their frame each time he wanted to lean his temple on his fist. He’d hardly slept. John had once more lain in bed with his back towards him, treating him like a brother rather than a lover. It wasn’t that he’d stopped being kind to Sherlock. On the contrary. John had spent the entire Sunday being extremely considerate and helpful, to the point where it had become quite annoying. So Sherlock was actually glad to have an undercover mission that took him away from home for a while. The earl had successfully insisted the building contractor hire Sherlock – or Dan White, as he’d decided to call himself – to assist his crew with the stable’s roof while one of the regular crewmen was at home sick.

Hence, Sherlock had spent the better part of that Sunday reading up on roof tile laying, as well as watching instruction videos on the subject on Youtube, in between digging up a false earring, a pair of round-lensed glasses, the liquid eye-liner he used for fake tattoos and his black tooth wax, from his disguise chest.

So now here he sat, on a train racing westwards, wearing his builder’s garb and a reversed cap, green-framed glasses, a silver earring, a large Celtic tattoo in his neck and seemingly missing a tooth, while all kinds of facts and curiosities on tile battens, ridge vents and roof insulation materials swirled through his mind. Plus, of course, the details of the missing boy’s case.

Once he arrived at the train station, Sherlock walked the by now familiar road to Holdernesse Hall. On the premises, he instantly spotted the contractor and made for his direction. He stood talking to the earl, who was with his back towards Sherlock.

“Ah, my new man!” the contractor exclaimed, when he spotted Sherlock.

As the earl turned around to look at him, his face went white. “No. No, I told you to hire _Dan White_ , not just any random fellow!” he stammered.

Sherlock grinned. “Dan White at your service, Your Lordship,” he said with a small nod and a slight Yorkshire accent. “I’m sure I’ve changed a bit since you last saw me, but here I am, in the flesh.”

Beverly’s eyes widened as if he were seeing a ghost, as Sherlock turned to shake the contractor’s hand – while trying to suppress an even bigger grin. No need to worry about the efficacy of his disguise, then.

Not ten minutes later, he found himself on the roof of the stables, from where he could rather perfectly oversee all activity while laying roof tiles.

* * * * * 

By Tuesday afternoon, a day and a half into his new ‘job’, Sherlock had become rather fed up with the senseless banter of the workmen, which distracted him not so much from the case but from being able to meanwhile think about the situation he’d gotten his relationship with John into. Also, his back was aching. He’d been taking as many trips to the loo as he could without arousing suspicion, so as to optimally extend his area of surveillance into part of the Hall, as well as stretch his back and have some quiet moments to himself, and he decided to venture another one now.

He’d seen maid Amy carry unusual amounts of onions away from the kitchen and noticed that she didn’t wear her hairclip on the same side every day. Also, the earl had turned out to have a tendency to watch absolutely crap telly in the mornings. But so far, Sherlock hadn’t caught sight of any unusual guests at the manor, or strangers lurking along the road.

As Sherlock walked down the hallway, casually scanning his surroundings, he spotted Amy once again, just disappearing around the corner to the south wing.

Deciding not to bother with her for the moment, he entered the loo, leaning back against the door once he’d closed it behind him. He then slowly let himself slide down against it, until he was sitting on his heels, stretching his sore spine against the flat surface.

_John._

_John. John. John._

The fear that he managed to keep a lid on during work, sprang free as soon as he closed his eyes. Fear that he’d messed up. Like he’d messed up so many things in his life. But it had never _mattered_ before. And it did now.

 _Why_ had he told John? _Why?_

The signs were everywhere: John didn’t want him anymore, now that he knew. He’d stopped touching Sherlock altogether and he had become distant and absent-minded, the minute his pity had worn off. Sherlock was obviously tainted now, in his eyes.

This whole honesty lark was decidedly grossly overvalued and it clearly led to nothing but calamity. How stupidly naïve it had been of him to think that his relationship with John would last, with that wretched history of his...

Another wave of renewed anger at what Middlehurst had done to him threatened to pull him deeper into his Mind Palace, where he’d not-quite-buried the most vicious of his primordial emotions, where everything was pitch-black hate and bitterness. But he quickly resisted the angry vortex pulling him down and opened his eyes. He stared at the white bathroom tiles. He was now a better person than this, above the treacherous lure to resort to pointless hate, which could only drown him.

He blinked a couple of times.

John had seen something pure in him and he needed to cherish that and try to keep being the person who John had loved. Who had actually been transformed for the better by that very love, in fact.

Right there, on that bathroom floor, he swore to himself that he would always keep loving John, even if John did in fact no longer love him back. At any rate, the whole plan to propose to him seemed ridiculous now and he certainly wasn’t going to follow through on that and make a fool out of himself. Instead, he thought, reluctantly, he’d better focus on getting used to the idea that he might very soon be by himself again, back to the way it had always been, which was probably a more natural state for him to be in, anyway.

* * * * *

Two more hours till John would come home from his night shift. Two more hours until Sherlock could witness him acting withdrawn and ignoring Sherlock again.

Why did he even keep checking the clock? Sherlock turned his head away from the red digits on the bedside table, instead looking down at his hands. Hands that had touched John, explored his body, made him climax. Even though it had been mere days, it felt like a distant memory already.

As he sat cross-legged on their bed, he realised that he missed John impossibly more than he had during what they had come to call _the Hiatus_. The feeling was worse now that John was only _just_ out of reach, right under his nose the whole time, where Sherlock could theoretically walk up to him and touch him any moment he chose to. But an invisible veil had been draped between them, preventing either of them from doing so.

He missed him so much.

It would only be a matter of time before he would disappear from his life altogether, and this time for good, of course.

_Human error._

He took John’s dog tags from where John had casually dropped them next to the alarm clock, and spun them idly between his fingers. He then spotted John’s broad-striped sweater lying across the chair under the window. He rose to pick it up and pressed it to his face to smell. _John._

He listlessly flopped back onto the bed, hugging the garment to his naked body. He threw his head back, closing his eyes as he imagined John was there, hovering over him, partly undressed and with his hard cock patiently leaking pre-cum, as he whispered sweet nothings into Sherlock’s ear like he always did.

[](http://sherlockedart.tumblr.com/)

Sherlock arched his back, reaching for his prick as it started to grow erect. He _wanted_ John, longed for him to take over control and let Sherlock switch off his mind, to dictate all of Sherlock’s bodily sensations, to fuck him slow and deep, to _ground_ him.

Without John, Sherlock felt like a kite let loose, floating directionless and erratically, in danger of crashing down to the ground any moment.

To keep up the illusion that John was there, looming over him, keeping him safe, Sherlock started to touch himself the way John used to touch him, stroking slowly yet firmly. He desperately needed to get rid of the tension in his body, of the paralysing apprehension that blocked his mind’s abilities.

As he tossed himself off, his troubles faded and became mere background noise to the reality of his impending orgasm. When it finally crashed down on him, for a short moment in time, nothing mattered at all and there was nothing but bliss and the scent of John’s sweater.

At least, after that, he fell into a peaceful sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you should like to reblog the above picture to your tumblr, [here's](http://shirleycarlton.tumblr.com/post/147795501401/cumberbitchsandwich-sherlockedart-sherlock) the link to the post on my blog. :)


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your kudos and lovely comments. They mean more to me than you can imagine. :)  
> Hopefully this chapter partly makes up for some of the angst in the previous one...

The boy had been missing for a week now. John had spent the entire Monday sitting at home and feeling useless. But above all, he’d mainly been kicking himself for never having realised a thing about Sherlock’s past regarding sex. How could he not have thought anything each time Sherlock had said that he wanted to _see_ John while making love? And their first time in bed, when Sherlock had so atypically offered himself to John with such obvious discomfort?

John felt like a complete arse.

(Thank god he had not actually acted upon that overhurried invitation back then and had decided to take things slowly. But still, all those times he had in fact shagged Sherlock, he had done so in complete oblivion.)

Another part of his frustration stemmed from the fact that John was, above all, a protector. And not having been there to protect Sherlock against this was something he found very hard to deal with. Absurd as it was, he found himself irrationally wanting to travel back in time and prevent it from happening. To knock the son of a bitch to the floor and strangle him with his bare hands, before he’d had a chance to lay a finger on _his Sherlock_.

Sometimes, he felt so much anger that it nearly suffocated him. He looked at strangers outside and bitterly wondered what they had on their conscience. No rapist ever looked like a rapist, did they? These bastards could be everywhere – and so could their victims, for that matter, for they were just as invisible. John honestly didn’t know what he would have done if that teacher of Sherlock’s had still been alive. It was probably a good thing that he wasn’t.

The only thing that seemed to help to distract himself from these thoughts was to drown himself in work. He now regretted having only a couple of shifts a week at the surgery. So he repeatedly found himself scrubbing the sink and the worktop in the kitchen, and once even all the floors in the whole flat, just to focus his energy on something else.

The truth was, John had always considered sex with Sherlock nothing less than a sacred act: to be allowed to see the unmasked, vulnerable side of this stunning genius and to ever so carefully shut down his brain, flooding it with pure sensation and pleasure while John was actually, amazingly, _inside_ of him. But how could he ever touch Sherlock like that now that he knew that that same act had once been traumatic to him? How could he ever do the very thing to him again that that monster of a teacher had done?

This whole episode also put Sherlock’s anxiousness about their current case in a different perspective. Sherlock was clearly exceedingly aware of what could happen to little boys at the mercy of ruthless men. It wasn’t that this thought had never occurred to John, but he simply hadn’t had any reason to dwell on it, seeing as finding the boy ASAP was already the highest priority. But he had now. And he did.

Painful as it was, John noticed that ever since Sherlock had told him, he had become withdrawn, avoiding eye contact and shutting himself off in that way that John had grown accustomed to in their early days together, but which he had not seen in a while (or missed, for that matter). But John couldn’t blame him, what with that memory having suddenly been brought to the surface, undoubtedly bringing a shitload of unwanted emotions with it. It was only natural that he wanted a bit of space, John figured, just like he himself felt he needed some time to let the tornado in his head settle down. Because it raged inside him with an intensity that showed no signs of dwindling just yet.

By Tuesday, John hadn’t been able to stand the empty flat anymore. Deciding that it wouldn’t hurt to find out a bit more about Steve Meredith and his strange adventure spraining his ankle on the moor, John had gone to the street where he and Craig Welton lived, in order to shadow the two of them and see if they might be hiding anything. Or anyone.

He’d sat on a bench facing their flat, reading a newspaper for several hours. Then he’d stood at a bus stop just across the street for a bit, until finally, he’d seen the pair leave the building. There was hardly anything to be deduced from what he saw, though. Steve was walking with crutches and looked weak, and Craig chattered as he walked beside him, slowly and attentively, apparently elated to have him back.

John followed them at a safe distance. They entered a supermarket in the next block, where they bought some groceries. Then they walked back to the flat again.

That was the moment John decided to give up for the day and go home. He had a night shift that evening, after all.

He’d wearily plonked himself down in his chair back at Baker Street, but hadn’t so much as taken his shoes off before he heard Mrs Hudson’s footsteps on the stairs.

“Yoohoo!”

“Yes, Mrs Hudson, do come in.” John could definitely use a friendly face and the landlady’s jollity always managed to cheer him up even under the gloomiest of circumstances.

Slowly, the door swayed open and she came in with a plate of biscuits. Good old Mrs Hudson.

“I just wanted to bring you some of these,” she said, carefully setting the plate down on the little table beside him. “They are honey biscuits. I baked them this morning. I was trying out the recipe for Mrs Turner’s charity event next week. She’s raising money for the homeless pets vets.”

“Oh, lovely, thank you, Mrs Hudson. That sounds like a worthy cause indeed.” John took a biscuit from the plate, as he enquired, “How have your eyes been of late?”

“Still the same,” she sighed. “But then again, there’s always something to complain about at my age, it seems. Now I’ve got this terrible constipation and nausea to go with it.” She shook her head.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” John said. “Maybe you should take some rest. Not bake so many things for the world at large,” he jested, even though deep down, he worried about her. She had always been in very good health ever since he’d known her.

“Well, I’d rather be sick than bored, you know.” She grinned and winked at him. “And anyway, how would I otherwise ever get rid of the stock of honey I’ve got cluttering up my kitchen cabinets, that I got myself talked into at the Barnet fair last month?”

He grinned back, shaking his head.

* * * * *

That evening, after John had come home from his night shift, Sherlock had already been fast asleep, curled up like a cat on his side of the bed. John quietly took off his clothes and lay down next to him, studying his contours. The minutes ticked away as he lay there just looking, aching to touch him, to put his arms around him and hug the stuffing out of him.

But he didn’t know how to anymore.

He was no longer sure which touches were welcome and which might not be. Which ones he did for Sherlock and which ones for himself. All the times he’d touched his lover in these past weeks, he’d done so under the naïve assumption that they delivered the same message he’d wanted them to convey.

John scrunched up his face in frustration.

Taking a deep breath, he turned away, grabbing his phone to check his e-mail and unwind a bit before trying to go to sleep.

There turned out to be a note from Harry. It was just a chatty e-mail, the type that she was better at writing than he was at replying to, but he appreciated her effort to stay in touch anyway. She told him about her new job at a utility company, mentioned that she’d seen a photograph of him and Sherlock in the paper above an article about the unsolved Abergavenny case, and asked him how he was. He told himself he would definitely sit down and answer it tomorrow, then switched off this phone and also the bedside lamp.

While he tried to sleep, there was one sentence from his sister’s e-mail, however, that kept playing through his head. ‘I wish I had someone like you have. Someone who thinks you are the world to them, and who radiates happiness already for the simple fact that you exist.’

Did Sherlock really feel like that? Funny that he should doubt that, he thought, as it was definitely exactly how John felt about _him_. Except that, since last Saturday, whenever he now looked at Sherlock, it wasn’t pure elation that he felt. It was also pain and anger about the mental scar that had been so cruelly inflicted on him all those years ago.

But perhaps above all, pity.

Which Sherlock clearly was uncomfortable with.

And John could hardly blame him.

* * * * *

That night, John had a nightmare that made most of his earlier ones pale in comparison.

He was in the storeroom at Sherlock’s old school, witnessing everything without being able to do anything about it. He was trapped behind glass, slamming his fists against it noiselessly. He could see, but he was invisible. Powerless. Useless.

* * * * *

On Wednesday morning, they once more moved around each other awkwardly in the kitchen; John feeling the heaviness of Sherlock’s former secret still pressing down on him with the exact same force it had for three days now, while Sherlock seemed to have the single goal of leaving for Holdernesse Hall again as soon as possible and performing every action required to do so with utmost efficiency.

Once Sherlock was in his builders clothes and he’d reappeared from the bathroom with his tooth painted black and his false tattoo skilfully applied once again, he made for the door before John had had a chance to say so much as a simple good-bye to him. Just like both days previously.

“Sherlock,” he called, as his lover stepped into the hallway.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks and turned around.

John swallowed, lacking all courage to do what he wanted to do, which was simply walk up to Sherlock and give him a peck on the lips like he’d always done since they got together. Instead, he heard himself say, “Good luck today at the Hall.” He cursed himself when Sherlock simply nodded and disappeared down the stairs.

Rather than going back to bed to get some more sleep like he’d intended to, John decided to shadow their thus far not-so-suspicious suspects one more day. Admittedly, it was not an ideal method to keep his mind off things, but at least it gave him a purpose while he mulled over his thoughts. So he took the same bus he had the day before and got off at the same stop again to change to the other line that would take him to their street. That second bus, however, drove off just as John stepped onto the pavement. Bugger.

Well, he was in no hurry anyway.

When he sat down on a bench to enjoy the morning sun while he waited, he spotted two familiar figures at the ice cream van near the entrance to the local park across the street. It was Greg and Molly. She was leaning towards him, smiling, upon which he put an arm around her and cheekily took a bite of her ice cream. Offended, she laughed out loud and he offered her a bite of his. They looked happy. John smiled inwardly. He then wondered what it would take to make his own unconstrained spontaneity return, so that he and Sherlock could be like this again.

Maybe they should get out more, do fun things together that weren’t case-related occasionally. He made a mental note to act upon this intention.

* * * * *

John had read two newspapers and drunk three coffees-to-go when he finally spotted his targets inside their flat. He first saw young Craig, who seemed to be dusting off the shelves right next to their largest sitting room window. Luck had it that he was in very clear vision from where John was standing. The youth took several cartoon figurines off one shelf and put them on the windowsill, then later put them back again one by one, once the surface was dust-free. “Oh shit!” Craig suddenly exclaimed, loud enough for John to hear through the open window. That same moment, John saw something small fall through the air, two floors down till it crashed on the pavement with a soft but sharp sound. “Oh, man, I’m so sorry, Steve,” John heard Craig say as he turned away from where he stood. Then Steve appeared, hobbling to the window on his crutches and looking down at the shards below, distress evident in his stance and demeanour. “Oh no! That was my Aladdin that I got at Euro Disney Paris in 2003! Oh Craig, how could you not have been more careful?” Steve reproached his young lover.

John realised his mouth was hanging open and quickly closed it. Then, he casually shuffled closer to the building, so he could catch more of what they were saying.

“I’m really sorry, honey. I should have closed the window first when I put everything on the windowsill. You know what, how about we go to the city centre this afternoon and have a look at Harrod’s to find you a new one?” There was a short silence. “I know it won’t be the same, but still. It’s the only way I can try to make it up. We need to get out of the house, anyway, have some fun. And the doctor said it wouldn’t do you any good sitting still all the time anyway. You need to practice walking more. Alright?”

John took a few more steps, so he could see inside again.

They were standing close together now, their foreheads touching.

John couldn’t hear what was being said after that, and shook his head in amazement at his wrong assumption about which of them had been the cartoon fan. He decided to get himself a sandwich and head back home for a rest after all. He was only chasing ghosts here.


	15. Chapter 15

Late that Wednesday morning, Sherlock actually talked to Amy. Or rather, and even more baffling, she talked to _him_.

Sherlock had been so incautious as to take off his cap and glasses in the restroom at the Hall, since he wanted to throw some water over his face to cool off, when she entered with her cleaning equipment. Or more precisely, with the cleaning lady’s cleaning equipment, as the cleaning lady herself had apparently fallen victim to the same summer flu that the man Sherlock was replacing suffered from.

Amy recognised Sherlock even before realising that he was disguised as one of the builders. “Mr Holmes!” she gasped. Her secondary reaction, though, was not what he had expected at all. She giggled. Only then did it visibly dawn on her. “Oh! Are you _undercover_? You’re one of _them_! Oh my goodness, you’re the replacement!”

Quick as lightning, Sherlock tried to think of plausible ways to talk himself out of this. But he was severely distracted by the fact that her personality seemed completely opposite to what he’d seen of her before. She was at ease and smiling.

She spoke again before he could. “I… I’ve been reading Doctor Watson’s blog. He’s… your _partner_ , right? I mean, he’s obviously your partner, but I mean…” Her voice suddenly dropped to a lower and conspiratorial, serious tone. “… your _boyfriend_.”

Sherlock opened and closed his mouth, completely out of his depth.

“Oh, I’m sorry, this must sound awfully impertinent,” she added, her voice still hushed. “I feel like I should explain. It’s just that… I am in a gay relationship myself, but although I’m comfortably ‘out’ to my family and friends, I’m rather painstakingly hiding this little fact from my employer, who I’ve discovered is a fiercely blatant homophobe. And with your reputation of deducing people in public all the time, I frankly got a tad nervous when you walked in here the other day.” She looked down at her hands, suddenly shy. Then, smiling apologetically, she concluded, “So when I found out that you were queer as well, it was actually quite a relief.”

 _Oh_.

“I see,” Sherlock muttered, attempting a small smile.

“Don’t worry,” she whispered, “your secret is safe with me. Both of them.” She smiled. Then, suddenly solemn, she added, “I hope you find little Arthur, soon. Please will you try your very best?” She looked up at Sherlock with big, pleading eyes and Sherlock nodded, muttering an excuse as he grabbed his hat and glasses and left.

* * * * *

Sherlock had only barely recovered from his unexpected encounter with Amy, absent-mindedly laying roof tiles, when just after lunch time, he noticed his ‘colleague’ James (whose last name was Wilder, he’d discovered) slip around the back of the Hall again, carrying a heavy looking plastic carrier bag.

This was the moment he’d been waiting for.

After days of formulating and testing theories and eliminating possible suspects and hypothetical chains of events one by one, there was only one conceivable scenario that remained and it was unfolding before him right now.

Sherlock hurried down his ladder and ran to the main entrance at the front of the manor, pressing fast dial on his phone to contact the local police and succinctly asking them for assistance while he sprinted across the lawn. The older maid was about to stop him as he barged into the Hall, but he got rid of his disguise as he insisted on being let through and she gave in, eyes wide in shock. The earl appeared around the corner of the central hallway to see what was going on.

“Ten thousand pounds for the man who can say where your son is, right?” Sherlock said. “I’ll give you my bank details in a minute. Your son is right here, in your house. Do your fire alarms work?”

The earl vaguely nodded, dumbstruck.

“Good.” Sherlock rushed into the north wing, motioning for Beverly to follow him. Once they were over halfway down the corridor, Sherlock produced the smoke bomb he’d been carrying around especially for this moment. After setting it off, he carefully rolled it towards the far end of the corridor, whispering urgently to the earl, “I want you to shout ‘fire!’ on the top of your lungs now.”

Within seconds, the smoke spread enough to set off the fire alarms. “Fire! Fire!” the earl shouted, looking at Sherlock sideways, clearly wondering what on earth they were doing. Sherlock had never denied loving a touch of the dramatic, and he could now feel anticipation rise like champagne bubbles in his stomach.

The next moment was rather dramatic indeed. A hitherto concealed door swung open in the far wall, just like Sherlock had expected, and James Wilder emerged from the smoke with Arthur. He held the handkerchief with the Holdernesse coat of arms to his nose.

The boy was blindfolded and coughing severely.

Sherlock had already grabbed the fake gun from his tool belt and pointed it at James as he walked closer toward him, motioning for him to let go of Arthur and step away from the boy. “You. Over there.”

“Arthur!” the earl choked out.

“Dad?”

Two maids could be heard gasping in the background.

“It’s okay, Arthur, you can take off your blindfold,” Sherlock said. “Your dad is here, everything is fine now.” With one hand, he opened a window to let in fresh air, while still holding Wilder at gunpoint. Then he kneeled to carefully pick up the smoke bomb and threw it outside, without moving his gaze.

After pulling down the cloth and blinking at his surroundings, Arthur ran to his dad, who held him in his arms, clearly overcome with joy and relief. “You were right _here_ all this time? Oh god, you were so close and I didn’t know.”

“We’re at home?” the boy said, incredulous. He was clearly weakened and Sherlock very much doubted that he had been fed on a daily basis. Sherlock was, however, quite sure that that was the only way he had been maltreated (beside undoubted verbal threats and intimidation to keep him from calling for help). Thank god.

Positioning himself between James and his only way out, Sherlock deduced, “You got attached to this house very quickly, Mr Wilder. Although I’m sure you would like to be addressed as Beverly.” At James’ furious expression, Sherlock said, “Oh, had you already sent your ransom letter? Don’t worry, nobody told me. The situation was quite clear from the coat of arms on your old handkerchief, which you keep with you at all times. When, by coincidence, you came to work here, you recognised the same image above the entrance and realised you were working for your own father. You heard of the other son and couldn’t stand the idea that he would inherit all this and you would get nothing. So you abducted him, by sending him a letter that you pretended was from his mum, to lure him out of his dorm in the dead of night. Once you realised that the letter had been found and had put the police on Edith Beverly’s track, together with the fortunate coincidence of the shawl, which the boy kept in much the same fashion as you did your handkerchief, you probably decided this was an ideal distraction for you to be able to quietly send the ransom letter. You planted another clue, fishing a medicine box out of the garbage bins on the estate. I imagine you thought it would suit Edith well getting the blame, as she got what your own mother never had.”

The earl looked at Sherlock with open mouth, his arms still around his son. “You deduced all this from his handkerchief?”

“Well, that’s what put me on the right track, yes.”

James clenched his jaw. “So how did you know that the boy was in this room, then?” he spat.

“Ah well, once I realised that the shorter corridor on this floor indicated the presence of a hidden room, added to the fact that you are familiar with building work yourself, I figured you’d have found this the ideal place to hide the boy, since you could easily bring food and water to him unnoticed.”

The earl looked positively perplexed. “I gave that handkerchief to Rose almost thirty years ago. Before she broke my heart and told me we’d better stop seeing each other.”

Just then, several police officers came running into the corridor, efficiently capturing and handcuffing the surprised abductor.

A female officer kneeled down next to little Arthur, asking him if he was okay. The boy nodded, holding on tightly to his dad.

“I just wanted justice!” they heard Wilder cry as he was being taken away.

 _I just want my John back_ , was all Sherlock could think.

* * * * *

Back home, John hugged him and kissed his forehead when Sherlock told him the boy was safely back. Exhausted, Sherlock dropped into his chair (the sofa being full of cloths and clothes that John was apparently sorting through). Within a few moments, John brought him sandwiches and tea. The best in all of England.

John was eager to hear all about how Sherlock had found Arthur, so Sherlock told him; and John was once more in no way trying to hide how impressed he was. For a while, things felt just like the old days.

The next morning, Sherlock woke up to find he was still in his chair, a blanket carefully wrapped around him.

John wasn’t in the flat.

He probably had to work at the surgery today. Sherlock had to think really hard to remember what day it was. Thursday. June 18. Somehow, that date rang a bell somewhere at the very back of his mind. Wasn’t he supposed to be somewhere that day? What kind of appointment could he have made for a Thursday mid-June?

Then it hit him. Lunch with Mummy. She was in town for some crafting event.

It had completely slipped his mind. He’d agreed to meet her for lunch so that he could take John with him and proudly announce to her that they were together now. He’d hoped that she would be happy for him. (Thank heavens his parents were open-minded enough to be fine with his partner choice.) But the way things were now, he didn’t feel much like going at all, much less telling her anything about him and John. So he was actually glad that he’d forgotten to let John know about this plan, seeing as it was too late to cancel. He would just have to go by himself then.

Luckily, there was still time for a proper shower and the removal of his neck tattoo and false missing tooth, which required almost as much time and attention as it did to apply them.

Having turned back into his usual self after having spent three days being Geordie builder Dan White, he jogged downstairs and hailed a cab.

* * * * *

At least the little place in central London that Mummy had invited him to had excellent butternut squash soup. And as usual, after having brought a case to a successful end, Sherlock was ravenous. The upside of this being that it was less impolite not to talk a lot when you were busy eating.

“Our former neighbour, Mrs Tubbs, recommended this place, and I must say it’s quite lovely indeed,” Mummy said, stirring her tea cheerily. “Surely you remember her?”

Sherlock nodded, having a vague and not entirely unpleasant recollection of the woman.

He pretty much nodded to everything Mummy said that afternoon, only once or twice taking the trouble to contradict her. He was tired. And one of his cerebral hemispheres was entirely occupied running a Mind Palace simulation of his and John’s third weekend together, last April, spent mostly cuddled up together on the sofa, with dinner at Angelo’s two evenings in a row. He had to make sure he’d never allow that memory to fade, which could be achieved by frequently and elaborately recreating it in his head.

At one point, three courses into their meal, Mummy very deliberately put down her cutlery and rested her chin in her hands, smirking. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

Sherlock blinked.

Dammit.

There was clearly no point in denying. “Yes, well, I’ve been meaning to tell you, actually…” He couldn’t suppress a nervous twitch of his mouth as he spoke.

“Oh, you’re _together_ , finally?” she beamed.

Sherlock managed a small smile. “Yes.” He still couldn’t help feeling proud that John had, in fact, chosen him at one point. Then his stomach turned to concrete again, as it did each time after he came back to reality after allowing himself to forget, just for a few seconds, where they were likely heading.

She nodded. “Let me see. You’ve either been together for around seven days, seven weeks, or seven months, as that’s always when trouble arises. Which is clearly the case. I think seven weeks, judging by your level of anxiety. You’ve had time to get used to the idea that this was forever and now that some reason has arisen to make you doubt that assumption, your world has been turned upside down.”

Sherlock stared at her, dumbstruck. “Well, at least that took us slightly longer than average statistics, then.” It had been twelve weeks. He made a wry smile and looked out onto the street, avoiding her gaze.

“What happened, Sherlock? Is your despair based on facts or on mere assumptions created by one of those infinitely complicated deductions generated by that overactive brain of yours?” She leaned back and stirred her tea, tilting her head and raising an eyebrow almost amusedly.

Sherlock said nothing.

“Do you still want him?”

He swallowed hard. “Yes.”

“So you think he doesn’t want you anymore, then. Has he _literally_ said so?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Listen, John is the only person I’ve seen make you happy in a long time, Sherlock.” She frowned, looking concerned. “You’ve got to give this a chance. Talk to him. Maybe things aren’t as bad as they seem.”

There was a short silence.

“I want you to be happy, sweetheart. You’ve found someone who loves you just as you are. You should cherish that. Don’t give up at the first hurdle just because it turned out not to be as perfect as you thought. Nothing in life is perfect, Sherlock. Least of all relationships. They are possibly the least perfect of all of life’s phenomena.” She paused again, looking thoughtful. “And therefore the most precious.”

* * * * *

Sherlock conceded that Mummy had a point. He and John needed to talk. Quit beating around the bush.

It took two days before Sherlock stopped trying to find the right moment and he just blurted out in the middle of clearing away the dishes after dinner, “Listen, John, I know you want out, right? It’s only logical.”

John stopped in his tracks and stared at him blankly.

“It was utterly stupid of me,” Sherlock went on, “to have been honest to you about something like that, which completely changes your image of me and which therefore makes it impossible for us to continue the way we were. I’m sorry I didn’t think it through. I just--”

“Stop.”

Sherlock only now looked up at John, who was staring him down with military stringency that was, interestingly, in no way lessened by the fact that he was rather absurdly pointing a wooden spoon at him.

“Stop,” he said again, without blinking. “Sherlock, please don’t deduce things about our relationship, because you’re not good at it.”

Although somewhere deep down, Sherlock had secretly hoped for this kind of reaction, he still wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. “Please do correct me then, John,” he said timidly, as he studied John’s face.

It was as if John was in a way relieved to finally be having this conversation. “Right,” he said, putting the dirty spoon in the sink and pulling up both chairs on that side of the table, turning them so that they faced each other.

They both sat.

“First of all,” John said,” I still love you just as much, and I have no intention whatsoever of leaving you. Ever. You hear me?”

Well, that just didn’t make sense.

“But what’s the point, John?” Sherlock countered. “Why wouldn’t you? You don’t have to stay just _because_ , you know? I’m not forcing you to. It’s perfectly understandable that you wouldn’t want someone damaged like me.” Sherlock did not feel bitterness. It was a simple fact that John deserved so much better than such an imperfect relationship.

John’s eyes went soft and one of his hands gently grabbed Sherlock’s. “Are you listening to me?” he said. “I _love_ you.”

Sherlock frowned. “But you will never be able to make love to me the way you did before you knew,” he said quietly, looking down at their hands.

John let his head hang down in defeat for a moment, before taking a deep breath. “Sherlock, I…”

Then nothing.

Sherlock thought he could feel his heart break into a thousand pieces.

There was no doubt in Sherlock’s mind that if John didn’t leave now, everything would only continue to go downhill until they’d reached rock bottom. They would never be able to have sex in a natural way anymore and eventually John would end up leaving him anyway.

If only Sherlock had the guts to tell John to go right now, and save himself the excruciating ordeal of seeing their love transform into complete indifference.

“No. Sherlock, _no_. Just stop it, whatever it is that you’re thinking,” John ordered. “It’s just… I simply need time to come to terms with this. That’s all, okay?”

Sherlock stared at him, uncomprehending. “What’s there to come to terms with for you? I’m stained, and that’s not going to change, John. I’m damaged goods, always will be.”

Suddenly, Sherlock was silenced by lips pressed to his mouth. John was kissing him again, just like before: tender, slow and full of… _love_ – taking Sherlock completely by surprise.

When John let go, his face remained just as close, as he softly said, “Just give me some time. It will be alright, I swear. Just don’t close yourself off like this and _please_ don’t feel inadequate. That’s not helping, you know.” John looked at him intently. “Sherlock, you are the strongest and most amazing person I have ever met. It’s awe inspiring to see the things that you have gone through, both on purpose and unasked for. And this is just one of those things. It proves how strong and amazing you are. It doesn’t change anything. The only problem is that _I_ feel guilty. Guilty for not knowing, which was technically hardly my fault, I suppose, and neither was it yours for not wanting to tell me, which was perfectly understandable. You had no obligation to tell me, and I don’t blame you for not telling me earlier. So I’ll just have to find a way to get rid of my guilt and you’ll have to find a way to get rid of your lack of self-esteem.”

Sherlock was puzzled. “Guilt? You feel guilt?”

“Of course I do, yes. I was oblivious and insensitive to your feelings and it makes me feel like a complete fool. I’m a bloody doctor and I failed to see the signs of your abuse. I failed. Please forgive me, Sherlock.”

“But I never blamed you.” Sherlock frowned. “Honestly, there’s nothing to forgive. You shouldn’t feel guilty.”

“Well, I do. And it will probably fade away with time. All I’m asking is for you to give me that time, okay?”

Sherlock nodded, although deep down, he felt confused.


	16. Chapter 16

John tried not to think about it too much. Not about sex in general, nor about if and how he could ever get intimate with Sherlock again. He was just not ready to consider those things yet.

For over a week, he had withheld all forms of physical affection not only because he felt confused and guilty over the way he had touched Sherlock previously, or because he felt blinding anger rise inside of him whenever he was reminded of what that bastard had done to his Sherlock, but also – if he was completely honest – because he was afraid of getting an erection and ending up in a sexual situation, which was simply an absolute no-go for him at the moment. So he tossed himself off in the shower, thinking about nothing except his own prick and his need to climax in the most abstract way imaginable. Afterwards, he felt empty and possibly even more guilty than he already had.

However, since their rather awkward but also elucidating conversation in the kitchen, John had started trying gradually to touch Sherlock more again, for he was clearly upset by John’s lack of attention. Unfortunately, the effect so far was entirely counterproductive. Sherlock continued to act withdrawn and unresponsive, only making John’s attempts more painful.

[](http://sherlockedart.tumblr.com/)

Several times, John had put an arm around Sherlock in bed, but Sherlock had simply pretended he was already asleep even if John knew he wasn’t. In spite of what John had been telling him, Sherlock seemed convinced that John didn’t love him anymore. There was just no getting through to the bloody moron of a genius that he was. It was starting to reach the point of being pretty damn infuriating.

John frequently found himself trying to come up with ways to _prove_ to Sherlock that he still loved him. But each of those was as ridiculous as the next. How do you prove to someone that you really _actually_ want to be with them forever, _no matter what_?

He thought about Greg and Molly and how they seemed to be going places just for fun, enjoying themselves and each other’s company. Perhaps he and Sherlock should get out of the flat, out of London, even, for a bit. But before he could suggest anything of the sort to Sherlock, John would have to come up with some sort of meaningful gesture that would break the ice between them.

It was a Monday morning when the idea suddenly occurred to him, in between patients at the surgery. He was eliminating a backlog filling out forms and absent-mindedly lifted his coffee to his mouth, when the thought presented itself.

_He could ask Sherlock to marry him._

The coffee never reached his lips.

The idea terrified him to no small extent – seeing as getting married had not turned out to have been a very good idea the last time he’d tried it – and he almost dismissed it straight away (just as he’d done with all the other inane ideas that had popped into his head in the past two weeks). But on the other hand, the longer he thought about it, the more it seemed like the perfect solution. As he stared blankly ahead – the coffee slowly cooling in his grip – the part of him that never wanted to make a fool out of himself by vowing eternal loyalty to another person in front of everyone he knew ever again, was quickly being overshadowed by the part that wanted nothing more than to shout from the rooftops that Sherlock was his Everything: not only for the world to hear but especially also for Sherlock to hear.

He’d made up his mind before he even realised he had.

All he needed to do now was to come up with the right time and place to propose.

* * * * *

As the plan to ask Sherlock to marry him gradually took root more firmly in his mind, John’s awkwardness with Sherlock’s past and his own place in it, including his sadness and anger, slowly started to fade to the background, as if a weight had been lifted from him. Interestingly, this somehow seemed to rub off on Sherlock. They smiled at each other again occasionally and Sherlock no longer appeared to postpone going to bed by conducting experiments into the night all the time. Sometimes they lay in bed talking about the cases Sherlock had rejected that day or a news article that John had read.

Very slowly, a sense of normality was creeping back into their lives, and it made John feel like he could breathe again.

One afternoon, when John was free from the surgery and Sherlock was out on some errand, John was surfing the internet to get ideas for a nice location to propose. But everything he looked at just seemed meaningless and silly. He paced the room and started to clear away some of the accumulated clutter that had begun to annoy him from the corner of his eye, when the phone rang.

“Yes?”

“Hello, is this William Holmes?” an older woman’s voice asked.

John was taken aback by the name for a second, for Sherlock never used his real name, as far as John was aware. “Well, actually, this is his partner speaking,” he said.

“Oh, good. This is Josie from The Golden Beehive, of Epping. I just wanted to let you both know that we’ll be hosting a private party in the main garden from 6pm on the day that you’ve booked your afternoon tea, just so that you have the opportunity to move the reservation to an earlier hour if you should prefer. But we’ve got a table in the poppy corner reserved for you till as late as you like, anyway, so it’s up to you. But I know how William generally dislikes crowds, is why I thought I’d call.”

“Oh, that’s very nice of you. I will tell him,” John replied, puzzled.

“See you next Thursday then! If I don’t hear back, I will be expecting you at four, but don’t hesitate to call if you want to change your reservation. Bye-bye!”

“Thanks, bye.” John stared ahead for a full minute, baffled, then opened a new tab in his browser to search ‘golden beehive epping’. Pictures of a beautiful tea garden appeared on his screen, with hedges and wild flowers and a romantic looking cottage-like building in the background, a close-up of an actual straw beehive surrounded by bees flying to and fro, as well as some appealing images of plates with delicious looking scones, cream and jam. All in all, it looked very picturesque. What on earth had Sherlock made a reservation in this place for?

He jotted the time and location down in his diary, intending to tell Sherlock later that the lady had called.

* * * * *

“This is not like her at all,” Sherlock said, seemingly to no one in particular. He stood still in the middle of the sitting room, listening to something John could not hear. He lifted his chin and frowned.

“What?” John asked, looking up from his newspaper.

“Mrs Hudson watching Eastenders on a Thursday morning at eleven.”

John furrowed his brow, uncomprehending.

“She never watches telly during daytime, John,” Sherlock added, rolling his eyes. “I’m not entirely undiscriminating in my landladies.”

“So… you’re saying, what… that she might be poorly or something?”

Sherlock seemed to think for a minute. “I hadn’t considered that possibility, but I think it’s in fact the most feasible theory, yes.”

Without hesitation, John put down his paper and headed for the stairs. A moment later, Sherlock followed behind him.

Mrs Hudson was indeed watching Eastenders. She looked up at them drowsily from her flowery sofa when they entered her lounge. She was clearly not well, even though she smiled and insisted there was nothing the matter when they asked. “It’s lovely of you to pop round, really, but I’m fine, honestly. Just tired and suffering from this wretched nausea.”

“And constipation,” John added.

“And blurry eyesight,” said Sherlock.

Mrs Hudson sighed. “Well, yes. It must be old age, mustn’t it? I couldn’t keep escaping it forever. Ever since that ear infection in May my health has just been sliding downhill like an Olympic alpine skier.”

John sat down next to her on the sofa. His mind was racing. “You’re having trouble breathing.”

She didn’t contradict him, but just shrugged feebly in resignation.

He took her pulse. Slightly elevated, but faint. As he checked her whites and her tongue, the known facts were spinning through his head, in chronological order: ear infection, blurry vision, nausea, constipation, trouble breathing, slightly elevated pulse. What else was there? What else could he think of that would connect the dots? He tried to remember whether there had been anything unusual about what she had said or done in the past weeks, but no specific memory would occur to him, other than her knocking over the plant on the landing several weeks ago. Well, and that she'd recently brought up some honey biscuits to him that she’d baked for some fair. She’d then mentioned having been to this other fair, in Barnet, or some place like that.

John looked around the room, spotting the jar of honey next to the teapot.

Then it was as if a giant cogwheel in his head turned ninety degrees and he was suddenly able to see from a new angle. From there, he could almost literally hear things click into place, as he deduced what was going on.

Honey.

“Have you taken any antibiotics against that ear infection two months ago?” he enquired.

“Yes, I did. They were those round little blue pills. Mr Cargill prescribed them for me. I got them from that new pharmacy on Bickenhall Street.”

But John wasn’t listening anymore. A theory had started to form in his mind and he was now going over the steps one more time to check their plausibility.

“To the hospital. Now.”

“What?” Sherlock and Mrs Hudson spoke simultaneously.

“There’s only one explanation. You’ve been ingesting Clostridium bacteria through the honey that you’ve been using in everything lately. Usually those are only dangerous to babies under a year old, but your gut flora has been affected by the antibiotics, thus giving the intruders free rein. The botulinum neurotoxins that the bacteria produce are affecting your muscles. First the muscles in your eyes, then your stomach – hence the nausea and constipation – and your diaphragm is next.”

Both of them were looking at him with wide eyes.

“If we don’t get her to hospital _immediately_ , she might stop breathing, Sherlock. Now is the time to use your magic powers and summon a cab! It will take us there quicker than having to wait for an ambulance.”

Sherlock nodded, speechless, and disappeared to the hallway.

John helped Mrs Hudson get up and slowly walked her to the front door. A cab was pulling up to the kerb just in the moment they got there.

Twenty minutes later, an antiserum was being injected into her arm.

John dragged a hand over his face.

She was going to be fine.

* * * * *

It took John and Sherlock another cab ride to and from the hospital to bring their landlady the things she needed for her overnight stay there. They spoke very little, although Sherlock did attempt a conversation about the various species of Clostridium bacteria and the symptoms they generally caused in humans and different kinds of animals. John just nodded and smiled occasionally. The adrenalin had still not faded from his system.

Because Mrs Hudson’s symptoms, although serious, had been _relatively_ mild and slow progressing, they had been harder to recognise. John had been lucky to have realised the cause of it all.

It wasn’t until they were on their way back to 221b the second time that Sherlock eventually spoke again. “People just don’t know how to keep bees and make honey anymore,” he grumbled. “When the day arrives that I get tired of my work in London, I think I may just become a beekeeper myself, in some place quiet. Like Sussex. And thus prevent the local old ladies from dying of bloody botulism!”

John grinned, quirking an eyebrow, and squeezed Sherlock’s knee. “You? Keep bees?”

“Why not?” Sherlock said, appearing offended. But John was happy to detect a decided smirk under his scowl. He’d missed Sherlock’s sass. “They’re interesting creatures, you know,” Sherlock said, more seriously. “Almost as fascinating as humans. They even commit crimes against their society. And keeping a bee colony healthy is quite a challenge, what with the current invasion of parasitic Varroa destructor mites across Western Europe. And Clostridium. I would never get bored.”

“Well, that’s the main thing.” John smiled, wondering vaguely whether this might be something that Sherlock had actually thought through.

When they were finally home and having a cup of tea in their respective chairs, John realised with a start that their reservation at The Golden Beehive was in less than two hours. It had completely slipped his mind to tell Sherlock about the owner’s phone call.

Little point in telling him now.

After some deliberation, he decided that the best strategy now was probably to wait and see what Sherlock would do.

By half two, however, John reckoned he had to take matters into his own hands. He slipped up to his old room to make a quick phone call to the tea garden and verify that the reservation still stood and hadn’t been cancelled by Sherlock in the meantime.

It hadn’t.

Sherlock had indeed forgotten about it, then, intriguingly.

Stepping back into the sitting room, John simply announced to him, “Come one. We’re going out.”

Sherlock looked alarmed. “What? Where?”

“You’ll see. Let’s go. Time for some fresh air.”

Because the weather was nice, they walked the mile and a half to the station. When John headed for the platform where the train to Epping was waiting, it suddenly seemed to dawn on Sherlock. “Ah,” was all he said. John couldn’t quite read his mood, though. Somewhere between annoyed and resigned, with a hint of sadness.

John decided to stoically keep up a conversation about inconsequential things, chattering about the weather, the breed of cows in one of the meadows they passed, the new railway company on the connecting line that he’d heard was in danger of going bankrupt already.

They walked from the little station in Epping to the tea garden in companionable silence, enjoying the peace and quiet, and the sound of leaves rustling in the summer breeze.

In spite of his earlier tense mood, Sherlock was clearly at ease here, leisurely sauntering along the country road lined with flowering grasses and cow parsley buzzing with insect activity, while the branches overhead cast patterns of dancing shadows on the asphalt. He looked relaxed. (And stunningly beautiful.) His remark about beekeeping in Sussex suddenly seemed much less far-fetched.

The minute they entered the tea garden, they were heartily welcomed by the lady of the house, and directed to a little round table in a cosy and rather private corner of the garden under a torrent of cheerful chatter about how Sherlock (William) had grown. John stifled a grin.

Once they were sat down and provided with tea and a serving stand filled with all sorts of delicious snacks, John leaned back in his chair, pursing his lips before speaking. “So you had made this reservation for us then. Not for a case.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, distractedly. “I’d kind of forgotten about it with all the stuff going on in the past weeks.” He cleared his throat and fiddled with the honey dipper in the jar of liquid gold on the table.

John lifted some apple crumble onto his plate. “I thought we could use a couple of hours away from home, just the two of us, hanging out, with no purpose,” he said.

Sherlock was quiet, his gaze drifting along the trees in the distance, as if digging up old memories.

John spotted some bees flying back to their hive not far from where they sat. “It’s a lovely place, this,” he continued. “So you used to come here frequently in the past, I gather?” He took a bite of his crumble, which was delicious.

“Yes. About three decades ago,” Sherlock smiled cautiously.

“Yet the proprietress still remembers you.”

Sherlock’s smile widened by its own accord for a second, before Sherlock schooled his face back into a more neutral expression – not entirely successfully, thus sending butterflies scattering inside John’s stomach.

God, John was so in love with him.

Sherlock put a scone on his plate and sloppily smeared it with clotted cream and jam. “Well, I used to be rather remarkably cute when I was little, I’ve been told. And I liked the bees. I would sit in front of the hive and study them for hours. Josie used to tell me all about them. Finally found an interested audience in me.”

John swallowed. “You still are, you know.”

“What?”

“Remarkably cute.” John blushed, not caring that he did. He looked Sherlock in the eye, but Sherlock only held his gaze for a second, before he focused shyly on his scone again.

“I… I didn’t think you still felt that way,” he said quietly, his eyes flashing between John and his scone.

“Of course I do,” John replied, dead serious now. “I’ve been trying to tell you.”

“Love and attraction are two different things, John.”

“Sometimes yes. In this case, no.”

For a second, Sherlock critically raised one half of his upper lip, crinkling one side of his nose. There the twat went again, John thought, doubting everything in this universe, galloping in all directions like a wild horse, looking for clues and causes that weren’t always there.

An awkward silence descended over their table, during which John took the teapot and poured them both a cup of tea. When he put the pot back on its coaster, he sighed, frustrated at the misunderstandings that had managed to pile up between them. “Relationships are never easy, Sherlock,” he said. “By default, they are full of disappointments and miscommunication.” His heart skipped a beat as he realised this was actually the perfect opportunity to seize the moment and say what he’d been planning to say for a while now. He couldn’t have arranged for a more romantic setting if he’d tried.

It felt like that moment of stillness at the beginning of a rollercoaster ride, when the carts have reached their highest point, just before being pulled down the steep descent by their own weight. All it took were a few more inches in the same direction before there was absolutely no way back.

“I’ll put it quite plainly,” John heard himself say. Here went nothing. “I don’t ever want to be with anyone else anymore. Ever. No matter what. So there. I love you. I love you with every fibre of my soul, Sherlock. I love you so much it hurts. Nevertheless, and precisely because of that, actually, I never ever want to stop loving you and I don’t intend to ever leave you.” John swallowed, fidgeting with his teaspoon on his saucer. “If you are one day actually going to keep bees in bloody Sussex, I still want to be right there next to you, and reminisce about the life we’ve had together as we sit in our little garden. Because I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Sherlock Holmes.” John paused and gently grabbed Sherlock’s hand over the table. “I will follow you wherever you go. That is, if you’ll let me.” They locked eyes. “Please, will you marry me?”

The look on Sherlock’s face was initially one of pure shock. Then, slowly, his eyes softened and his breathing returned, in the form of several relieved-sounding huffs directed left and right. He smiled and bit his lip for a short moment, before he gleefully exclaimed “yes!” His expression was still jumping from happy to incredulous and back, as he added quietly, “If you’re really sure, that is, then yes, I will definitely marry you, John.”

John felt like he might explode from pure joy. Gradually, he saw his feelings mirrored on Sherlock’s face.

“So,” John grinned, beaming and not quite knowing where to look. “Here we are, then.” It felt ridiculous just sitting here, on separate chairs, when he wanted to hold Sherlock and kiss him and repeat that he loved him a hundred times over at least.

Sherlock’s lips, meanwhile, were doing extensive physical exercise, until he finally got them under control and he said, “You’re not going to believe why I made this reservation three weeks ago,” he smiled shyly, not looking at John. “I was going to propose to you here.”

John’s mouth fell open. “Wow. That’s just…” was all he managed, shaking his head.

“This is our hundred-day mark,” Sherlock added.

“Today? This is our hundredth day as a couple? I… er… hadn’t realised,” John admitted. “Quite an eventful hundred days, eh?”

Sherlock nodded bashfully. “I’ve never loved anyone before this, John,” he then said. “And for the longest time, I didn’t think I ever would. But when you came into my life five years ago, it was very hard _not_ to love you. And believe me, I’ve tried. Too many times.” There was a sadness behind his eyes that made John need to look away. Forcing his gaze back after a moment, he whispered hoarsely, “Same here.” He squeezed Sherlock’s hand, that was still in his. “Shall we promise to each other that we will never again try not to love the other, ever? Whatever ridiculous situation we might end up in?”

Sherlock huffed out a laugh. “Yes. We could even make that our quite unique wedding vow. Imagine people’s puzzled reactions.”

John giggled. Then they both giggled together.

When they were quiet again, John realised there was one more thing he felt he needed to say. He took a long breath. “Listen, I know that my previous marriage was just an empty shell that didn’t mean anything, which for some people might make it a reason never to marry again. But for me it’s all the more reason to want to set things right and be married properly. To the love of my life. You.”

Sherlock just blinked, not quite managing a smile, apparently overcome with emotions. 

John swallowed. “My love, to be honest, I want nothing more than to hold you and never let go. You know what? Let’s get out of here. There is this ridiculous table between us, and - -”

“I’ll ask Josie to pack our food to take home,” Sherlock suggested, nodding.

“Excellent idea.”

As soon as they were back on the lonely country road and out of anybody’s sight, they finally kissed. John ended up pushing Sherlock against a tree to get a better hold. They had almost three weeks of barely touching to catch up on.

On the train back, they were lucky enough to have a carriage practically to themselves, so that they could lean close together and feed each other little bits of lemon cheesecake and be disgustingly romantic about it without anybody noticing.

So that’s what they did.

* * * * *

By the time they arrived home, they were practically drowning in smiles and kisses and unable to stop groping at each other.

“Sherlock,” John managed, between all the snogging, “you have to _promise_ me though that you’ll tell me if I do something that makes you uncomfortable.”

“I already promised you that, John.”

Sherlock tried to continue to kiss him, but John retracted his head and said, “Well, promise me again. Please.” And then, very quietly, “I need to hear it again.”

Sherlock stilled and looked at John with eyes overflowing with love, one hand cupping John’s jaw. “I promise,” he said, with the softest smile.

John smiled back, reassured, relieved, until both their smiles merged into a kiss again, slow and tender this time, almost like their first.

[](http://sherlockedart.tumblr.com/)

In the following minutes, shirts were slowly unbuttoned and clothing randomly slung over various pieces of furniture as Sherlock and John gradually undressed each other while continuing to kiss. It was Sherlock who steered them little by little towards the bedroom in the process.

When they fell onto the bed, embracing, and naked, Sherlock whispered to John, “Please make love to me again.” The skin around Sherlock’s eyes was red from holding back tears.

“I really want to,” John said, squeezing Sherlock to his chest. “God, I really do. But the past couple of weeks, I just couldn’t, I’m so sorry. I need you to help me get rid of this feeling of guilt, alright? Will you please… guide me?”

Sherlock nodded eagerly as he tried to kiss John at the same time, almost bumping their chins and noses and making them laugh through the tension.

John had been so selfish, he now saw, to deny them both this – intimacy – all those weeks. He’d actually, ridiculously, on one level, thought himself so noble for not wanting this at the time, but what good had that been to Sherlock? He was still a sexual being, in spite of everything. John shouldn’t have allowed himself to make the problem bigger for Sherlock by blocking it all out, he realised now.

He carded his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, pulling him closer for kiss after kiss.

“John, I need you inside of me,” Sherlock murmured breathily, breaking contact to look at his lover. “Every time you make love to me, you overwrite a little part of that gruesome memory, and replace it with something beautiful and pure. I need you inside me to fill that gaping emptiness that still lurks at the back of my mind sometimes, created by him. I need you to fill it with _you_.”

John swallowed, all but trembling. The only response he knew was to kiss Sherlock again. To hold him. To devour him.

Sherlock kissed him back just as frantically. Then he rolled over on top of John, pushing him into the mattress with his full weight as he continued to lick needily into John’s mouth. After a while, when they were quite out of breath, Sherlock sat up and straddled John, trapping John’s prick between his arse cheeks. He then began to teasingly undulate his hips.

Sweet Jesus, that felt good.

Sherlock didn’t usually ride John, but now this was perfect; with Sherlock taking control, John decided to fully go with the flow and let him do what he wanted. He didn’t even push back up against Sherlock; he just underwent. Magically, it was as if every sensation was enhanced by not actively contributing to it himself. And it was scarier than he’d have thought.

This really shouldn’t have been so revolutionary. But John realised that this was what his previous female sex partners, as well as – bizarrely – his patients had been doing all the time. Letting someone else decide what happens with your body. What you feel, where you are touched. And that’s when he realised that he, John _trust issues_ Watson, trusted Sherlock unconditionally. He was going to marry this man and give him the rest of his life, and that thought didn’t scare him half as much as it probably should. If Sherlock would fuck him right now, he would be okay with it.

The realisation hit him hard as a truck. He was ready. Was he, seriously?? The expected panic following this thought never came. The fear and awkwardness at the idea of being penetrated suddenly _actually_ seemed to be gone. There was only unconditional trust, like a huge, bright cloud inside of him.

John briefly tried to think of any good reason why he should still keep postponing this and found none. So he put his hands on Sherlock’s sides and gently pushed him downwards, motioning for him to lift his knees from the mattress, one by one, so that John could spread his legs around Sherlock’s and Sherlock ended up between his thighs.

Sherlock obeyed, looking confused.

Opening his legs like this felt like surrendering, like welcoming something he was no longer afraid of. John felt light and heavy at the same time. Suddenly, everything was fine.

He pulled Sherlock close to him and nuzzled his neck for a few moments, before he whispered, “Sherlock, I want you to top this time.”

Sherlock’s eyes flew open. “John…”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t ready earlier. It just took me a while to get used to the idea, I guess. And then it got worse after… you know.” John caught Sherlock’s mouth in a tender kiss before he could reply, then let go to continue, “You were so trusting of me, right from the very beginning. I just… I’ve realised that I find that hard.” He tried a small smile. “But I really want it now. I want my future husband inside me.”

John lifted his legs and wrapped them around Sherlock’s back. Sherlock, however, appeared startled and pulled back a little. The look on his face was worried, almost alarmed. It hadn’t once occurred to John that Sherlock might not actually want to top at all. Could that be the case?

Sherlock stammered, “John, you’d need to… you know… finger yourself a couple of times first, to practice. You can’t just do it, unprepared, or your sphincter will clench.”

Oh, of course. Dammit. Sherlock had made it look so easy, but the git had probably trained his damn sphincter or something. In fact, come to think of it, he had literally said he had practised, that first time when he’d shown John the dildo.

Right.

This suddenly felt a lot less romantic.

Sherlock must have felt John’s reluctance at his suggestion, because he added, “There’s no rush, honestly.” He rested his forehead against John’s.

John smiled awkwardly. “I’m not sure I want to… finger myself.” The idea was rather preposterous to him, even though Sherlock was right, naturally.

“But you have to,” Sherlock insisted. “I’m not going to attempt to penetrate you before you have.” 

“No,” John said with resolve. “In that case, I want _your_ fingers. I want _you_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you should like to reblog the above pictures to your tumblr, [here's](http://shirleycarlton.tumblr.com/post/148109695301/so-heres-an-illustration-by-sherlockedart-that) the link to the first one on my blog, and [here's](http://shirleycarlton.tumblr.com/post/148109887586/sherlockedart-more-kissing-as-requested) the second. :)
> 
> By the way, I will definitely post the last chapter tomorrow! :)  
> Thanks to my amazing friend and Brit-picker Amber, I managed to in fact have it ready for you before I leave on holiday, yay!! :) :) Thanks again, my lovely friend xxxxx


	17. Chapter 17

It had been his very last few still functioning brain cells that had made Sherlock tell John that he needed to practice bottoming first, as the rest of his mind was overwhelmed with both arousal and apprehension.

John had finally asked.

Never mind that he’d also asked Sherlock to _marry him_ mere hours prior. With his Mind Palace still undergoing major refurbishing in the background, Sherlock was now expected to acquaint John’s arse with anal sex. To finger him. But how in heaven’s name could he finger John if he wouldn’t be able to feel whether he was doing it right? When he’d practiced on himself, it had been a delicate process of trial and error to figure out how he liked it – by simply altering the angle or pressure when it didn’t feel good – but at least he had been able to judge for himself and adjust what he was doing accordingly. But he couldn’t just copy-and-paste that onto John, could he? Just as panic threatened to crash over him, he realised that he should simply read John’s face. It was always an open book, but especially so during sex.

He could do this. John wanted him to.

Just then, John was apparently reading _his_ face, because he said, “Sherlock?”

Sherlock blinked. “Yes, yes, of course,” he replied.

John smiled at him fondly from below. “Only if you want to, though,” he whispered against his mouth, before kissing him once more.

Although Sherlock was terrified, he did indeed very much want to. But he had to somehow make absolutely sure that John enjoyed it. What if his sphincter would stay shut? What if Sherlock was clumsy and not careful enough and he would make it clench?

Come to think of it, he wasn’t sure his nails were really short enough.

“Sherlock, stop thinking.”

In that exact moment, without actively trying to, an image flashed into his mind and it was instantly clear to him what he should do. (Long live pornography for providing this invaluable bit of inspiration.) After one more kiss to John’s mouth, Sherlock crawled backwards until his face was level with John’s prick, and he planted a single soft kiss to its base. Then, he kissed the inside of each of John’s thighs, which John was still holding spread wide open, and from there, a meticulous trail downwards to his arse cheeks.

Sherlock ended up not reading John’s face but the noises he was making, and they sounded delightful.

For the next ten minutes, Sherlock worshipped John, and more specifically his arse hole, which John had given him permission to enter, by kissing every square inch in its vicinity. He didn’t care about hygiene, because this was _John. His_ John. And he loved him up to and including his intestinal flora.

As Sherlock lapped at the sensitive, pink skin around John’s entrance, he pondered over the strange fact that both ends of the human digestive tract were erogenous zones – for which he’d never encountered a satisfactory scientific explanation. And as far as effectiveness went: while regular kissing provided no waterproof guarantee of getting John hard, rimming most definitely had a very strong effect on his state of arousal.

“Oh _yes_ , oh _yes_ , Sherlock, you are a _god_ ,” John repeatedly moaned above him.

Sometimes, Sherlock’s grin made it hard to do his job.

When his jaw muscles started to tense up, Sherlock sat up between John’s thighs. John was hiding his face under one arm but sneaked a peek at him with one eye. He looked shy and a total mess and it was the most beautiful thing Sherlock had ever seen in the world.

Sherlock took the lube from the bedside table without taking his eyes off John, and carefully smeared some onto his fingers. From there, he applied some between John’s arse cheeks, gently rubbing little circles until John’s moans once more indicated he was ready.

Carefully, he pushed one finger in, just half an inch.

John sighed, relaxing into the mattress.

With his other hand, Sherlock held John’s cock, stroking it gently and in the same slow rhythm he moved his finger. Every time he pushed in, he pushed a tiny bit further, until eventually, millimetre by millimetre, his finger was all the way inside.

John was moaning softer now, more breathily. Sherlock was monitoring him closely, and although he seemed fine and relaxed, having a finger up his arse didn’t specifically seem to do much for him, no matter how diligently Sherlock tried to stimulate his prostate. Maybe he needed to feel more stretched?

Sherlock felt he could easily add a second finger, so he did.

And it worked, to an extent. Two fingers were obviously a tighter fit than one, and John surrendered to the new, invasive sensation completely. He threw his head back, clearly overwhelmed, stammering Sherlock’s name and things like ‘oh yes’, ‘yes please’ and ‘oh god’.

He was pleading, submissive, and it was an entirely new side of John that Sherlock had never seen before. Sherlock looked at him in wonder: this beautiful, amazing man who wanted to become his husband and who, Sherlock then realised, loved him unconditionally, as it appeared. Each time when Sherlock had doubted John’s love for him, he had turned out to have been wrong, and even though Sherlock had gone and pushed him away more than once, John had not budged or stopped loving him. And now they were going to tie the knot. Forever.

Finally, Sherlock dared to believe. John really wanted him, no matter what. Strange but true, apparently.

John was now bucking back up against his hand, apparently trying to make him reach deeper. Sherlock tried to accommodate him as best as he could. After only a few minutes, John was already so open, so relaxed. Maybe Sherlock could already...? _Could he?_ No, bad idea, he told himself, just _no_.

Just then, John pleaded, “God, Sherlock, I’m ready. I want _you_ now. Not just fingers. Your cock. _Please_.”

 _Oh god_.

He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. This was all going too fast. But John was lying there with his legs spread for _him_ , and Sherlock wanted to get inside of him so badly and John was _asking_ him to, and he was so _open_.

“Please, Sherlock,” John pleaded again, progressively turning into more and more of a gorgeous, hot mess.

Without actively deciding to, Sherlock carefully retracted his fingers from John’s arse and reached for the lube again. He then smeared an ample amount onto his prick. Just in case, he told himself. And also, it was a great excuse to touch himself and relieve at least a tiny bit of tension.

John was smiling at him, tentatively biting his lip. He still seemed intent on following through on this.

“John, are you really sure?” Sherlock asked, shakily.

“Yes.”

Sherlock reached for the nearest pillow with his clean hand and gently stuffed it under John’s bum, still telling himself it would make John more comfortable anyway, whatever they would do next that involved his arse. Because they weren’t actually going to do this now, for real, were they? Sherlock was not sure he was ready.

The truth was, for many years, he’d only ever imagined fucking somebody in anger, not love. That first time had had nothing to do with love, that was for sure. Even if, when Sherlock was completely honest, his initial regard for his geography teacher had contained an element of physical attraction, as much as Sherlock hated to admit it. But Christ, he had only been fourteen, and his sexual feelings had only just been starting to emerge, when Middlehurst had decided he could simply take what was right in front of him. Without care or kindness. Without consent.

Afterwards, in his anger and frustration, Sherlock had occasionally fantasised about doing the same thing back at him: to have Middlehurst helpless and at his mercy while he furiously pounded into him, seeking revenge and relief at the same time.

Those two things had been linked together in his mind for so long, that it was no real wonder that he’d banished that desire to the deepest cellars of his consciousness. John had managed to disconnect the two to a very large extent, but especially in the context of John penetrating him (quite literally making love to him). And now he was asking Sherlock to switch, requiring him to be as gentle as John had always been with him, and Sherlock wasn’t sure he could do that.

Nevertheless, as he sat there between John’s legs, he kept adding more lube over his prick, whether to prepare for the act or to put it off, he didn’t quite know. The same was true for what he did next, after a minute or two. He inserted his fingers into John once more, to make sure he was still open.

He was.

“ _Now_ , Sherlock. I’m ready,” he heard John say. John wanted this so clearly. All trace of the anxiety that Sherlock had seen in the previous months whenever John’s arse was concerned, was gone, completely. The way he lay there under Sherlock, so plainly wanting Sherlock to fuck him, was breathtaking.

Sherlock trembled as he removed his fingers once more, and positioned himself closer to John. He swallowed.

John smiled.

Sherlock whispered, “I’m so afraid to do it wrong. Please tell me if I’m doing it wrong.” 

John nodded, briefly cupping Sherlock’s jaw with his hand in a soft caress. “I will. But I’m sure you’ll be fine. Now stop loitering and make love to me. Please. This is long overdue.”

As nervous and afraid as Sherlock was to mess it up, John seemed to need this as much as he himself once had, three months prior, and the open expression on John’s face suddenly made it very easy to push in.

He did so very slowly – knowing that sphincters are capricious bastards that can randomly clench – and therefore looking intently at John, focusing on his face. John’s jaw went slack and his eyes misted over, but his breathing remained regular.

The feeling of being inside John was nothing short of spectacular. Sherlock’s glans was suddenly enveloped in warmth and equally stimulated everywhere at once. Low rumbles were escaping his throat as he carefully moved deeper, bit by bit, slowly sinking into his lover. His fiancé.

This was heaven.

Below him, John was smiling and biting his lip again, his eyes closed, trusting completely.

When Sherlock was about halfway in, however, John suddenly grimaced and sharply sucked in air between his teeth.

Sherlock froze, petrified. “Do you want me out?” he whispered quickly.

“No, no, it’s fine. Just give me a moment. Don’t move.” John let out a long, slow breath. After deliberately breathing in and out a few more times, he started to leisurely wriggle his hips in small movements. Then he took hold of his own cock and slowly pumped his fist a couple of times. “Carry on,” he grinned shyly.

[](http://sherlockedart.tumblr.com/)

Sherlock sensed he had started to soften inside John because of his nerves, but nevertheless he now continued to move, this time pushing and retracting, by only the tiniest bit, trying to create some sort of rhythm that might work for them.

Dear Lord, it definitely worked for _him_ , as his cock was rock-hard again before he knew it. The smooth friction around his shaft was staggering and the encouraging little sounds that John made were driving him crazy – in the best possible way.

“Oh yeah. That’s it,” John breathed. “Just like that. Oh, _Sherlock_.”

The combination of focusing entirely on John to monitor his reactions and the simultaneous avalanche of sensations in his own prick, made him feel _connected_ to John in a way he hadn’t experienced before. In the exactly hundred days he’d been with John, Sherlock had determined, finally, that sex was not about taking but about giving. But that wasn’t true either, really. As he moved inside of John, with more care and gentleness than he’d ever known was in him, he realised that good sex was, more than anything, about _sharing_. Even though he and John were feeling totally different things now, they were sharing this moment. And because both of them knew exactly what the other one was feeling, it was almost as if they were one being, feeling those two things at the same time. And it was astoundingly easy to be careful and not lose control.

Sherlock choked out a sob as it hit him that he no longer needed to be afraid of his own impulses. And then, in under a minute in total, his body clenched and he came, hard.

Trembling, he collapsed on top of John. He buried his face in John’s neck as he tried to catch his breath, holding on to his lover (fiancé) for dear life.

The world had gone fuzzy and quiet, and everything was heavy, in a wonderfully comforting way.

“So this was your first time penetrating anybody, then?” John asked softly, close to his ear.

Sherlock lifted his head to look at John. “Yes.”

“Was it good?”

“It was a bit overwhelming,” Sherlock said shyly. “But I should be the one asking _you_ how it was. Was it… okay for you?”

“It was perfect,” John smiled. “You were perfect. I love you.”

Sherlock felt himself mirror John’s smile, multiplied by ten. Everything in his life right now was perfect. “You didn’t orgasm, though.”

“Within those sixty seconds, I didn’t, no,” John said, with a smirk.

Sherlock frowned. “Was I that quick?”

“Nothing to worry about, you’re just a healthy young man.”

Sherlock snorted, and John grinned.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock sighed, contentedly. “Just give me a minute and I will make it up to you.”

“No, it’s alright. You don’t always have to come during sex, you know. It’s fine. I just want to lie here with you like this for a bit.” He pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s temple. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”

“The rest of our lives,” Sherlock mumbled, dreamily. He’d intended it to sound mockingly cheesy, but it came out surprisingly normal. Sherlock smiled inwardly.

“I love you,” John said once again, his voice strange and raw this time. “And the whole world will know. I will be your husband and you will be mine.” He looked at Sherlock, dead serious now, emotion filling behind his eyes. “Promise me we won’t ever let anything drive us apart ever again. Promise me we’ll stay together forever.”

“I promise,” Sherlock replied instantly. “And I will again in front of everyone. Because I love you more than I hate obligatory rituals. And crowds. And legal documents,” he smiled, and John sniggered.

They lay there, loosely embracing and getting used to the idea of being each other’s future husbands.

“You know where I would like to get married?” Sherlock asked after a while. “In Josie’s tea garden.”

“Well,” John said, smiling broadly, “we do owe her some patronage.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Shall we ask her, then?”

“Great idea.”

* * * * *

John lay in bed, uncontrollably grinning at the ceiling. Sherlock had fallen asleep on top of him, effectively trapping him, so he couldn’t move. At all. The git. John’s girlfriends used to complain that he did that too. He could even feel Sherlock’s semen leak out of him, probably making a stain on the sheets. But he didn’t care.

John had never been happier.

He’d thought that more often in the past weeks, and it had actually been true in each case. It definitely looked like an upward trend.

John found the world to be a different place since their date at The Golden Beehive. Not only did he strut through London feeling proud as a peacock for being engaged to the world’s only Consulting Detective, but also he felt sluttishly naughty at the idea of having spread his legs for another man – and it was exhilarating.

When he looked at other people, he couldn’t help but think about all the fun they were probably missing, simply because they likely never allowed anyone to fuck them (if they were men) or had never fucked their partners (if they were women). To John, it was almost like being part of a secret society of people who knew What It Was Like.

As he lay there, with his lover’s weight pressing down on him like a super-cosy blanket, mere moments after he’d been inside of John, he pondered how this invasion of Sherlock in his body was fittingly congruent with the way Sherlock had invaded the rest of his life and every other pore of his being. After that first time when John’s arse had painfully clenched, it hadn’t happened again. His body never protested, just as John himself in daily life never resisted Sherlock’s initiatives except after maybe one initial token objection, after which he would always give in and go along with him; and his body had actually responded in the same way to Sherlock’s penetration.

After having bottomed four times now, he still hadn’t experienced the ecstasy of prostate stimulation, and he’d never actually reached orgasm while doing it like that, but still he liked it, feeling Sherlock inside of him. It wasn’t something he would want every day, personally, but he definitely wouldn’t mind seeing Sherlock lose himself on top of him every once in a while. It was mainly the _idea_ of letting Sherlock have his way with him on occasion that was terribly enticing. And there turned out to be a very liberating effect to submitting to someone this way, letting yourself be carried on someone else’s passions for once.

Ever since that first time, he felt strangely proud.

On top of which, bottoming had largely erased John’s awkwardness about Sherlock’s past and his own role in relation to it. He actually hoped, deep down, that switching had been therapeutic for Sherlock too, in some way. He thought it probably had.

The next day, Sherlock had shyly asked, “Can I do it again?” And John had smiled and simply unbuckled his belt, without a word, in the middle of the kitchen. Then, he’d casually strolled to their bedroom, and Sherlock had followed him like a hungry predator.

John loved the shift in their dynamics since they’d switched. He loved to see Sherlock in control in bed, with glimpses of him being on the verge of _losing_ control. He loved the way Sherlock took care of him during sex and afterwards. That was, if he didn’t just fall asleep on top of him; and when he did, John loved that too.

Also, topping had been different after this. More intimate, somehow. Maybe because he knew what Sherlock was feeling as John topped. And definitely also because he was finally rid of his nagging unease about not being on equal footing.

And now, here he lay, with his fiancé sprawled over him fast asleep.

He waited as long as he could before waking him up, until the moment he genuinely feared for the cartilage connecting his ribs. “Sherlock, love,” he then said softly.

Sherlock lifted his head, startled, his curls a lovely mess. “What?” he said, drowsily. “Oh.” He rolled off, his arms however still around John.

And that’s how they both fell asleep.

* * * * *

An extra dimension to anal sex was revealed to John only later that month. One morning, John was pleasantly surprised to wake up being the little spoon for a change. He felt Sherlock’s erection pressing against his bottom, even though his lover was still fast asleep. Within minutes, John felt his own cock strain against his pants, and he reached down one hand to press it over his bulge. He also involuntarily pushed his bottom back against Sherlock, revelling in the feeling of Sherlock’s cock perfectly slotting in between his arse cheeks. He was still amazed at how wonderfully sensitive that area had turned out to be, once he’d allowed himself to be touched there. He subtly slid back and forth as he crudely stroked himself through his pants.

Sherlock was soon contributing to the rhythm, panting into John’s neck – first sleepily, then more and more energetically, clearly having woken up properly thanks to all the action suddenly taking place.

John couldn’t help it: he wanted Sherlock inside him again, without really knowing why. He honestly didn’t feel much special when Sherlock entered him, but still the idea turned him on to no end.

He wasn’t entirely sure what Sherlock would think of doing it in this position, because Sherlock personally didn’t like it like this as it made him unable to see John. But Sherlock could still see him if he topped like this, John reckoned, so he ventured to ask. He clumsily pulled his pants down and only really managed one word: “Please.”

In response, Sherlock teasingly licked the ridge of his auricle, before whispering, “Tell me what it is you want, John.”

At that, John grabbed the lube from the bedside table and pushed it into Sherlock’s hand, that rested on John’s chest. “Will you fuck me again, but like this?” God, he was already so hard. “Only if you want to, though.”

“I do,” Sherlock breathed, continuing to rhythmically press against him. “I do, I do. Oh John…”

There was a bit of fumbling behind him and then John felt the tip of Sherlock’s cock against his arse, ever so gently wriggling around his entrance for a bit, which felt like heaven, until it pressed steadily against the centre, and then effortlessly slid inside.

(John was eternally grateful that he’d managed to condition his sphincter so well in such short time and that he didn’t need fingering anymore beforehand, which saved a lot of hassle.)

He moaned softly as Sherlock pushed all the way inside him, and gasped when a hand suddenly grabbed his cock.

 _Oh yes_.

Sherlock started stroking him while he thrusted into him from behind as they both lay on their sides – something he’d never been able to do in their usual position. It was Sherlock’s hand-job that brought John to the edge in no time, and when he crashed down, it was with a force like he’d never known before. Coming like this, with a cock up his arse, was by far the most glorious orgasm he’d ever had and he was quite sure that all of Baker Street was now privy to that fact. Not that he cared. He was simply blown away.

He finally understood why Sherlock liked to bottom so much.

* * * * *

They had not yet really started to plan the wedding in earnest, but they did occasionally discuss some details regarding the big day, as they occurred to them. They had decided on the location (The Golden Beehive), the date (a Saturday in September) and who were going to be their best men (Lestrade and Stamford, who had both gladly said yes).

Sherlock loved to fantasise about the big moment itself, when he would proudly say ‘I do’ and they would kiss. Maybe people would even cheer, and then they would exchange rings to mark their bond in a forever visible symbol.

 _Rings_.

 _They hadn’t thought of those yet_.

_Oh._

But then it occurred to him. “I know!” Sherlock exclaimed, in the middle of the crime scene they were at.

Several people looked up.

“What? Tell me,” Lestrade urged, expectantly.

“None of your business. Where’s John?”

Lestrade rolled his eyes, wearily, but fondly. “Over there.”

John was just getting them both a coffee, as it turned out. His future husband, taking care of so many of his needs. Sherlock stared, love-struck, as John came walking back towards him carrying two paper cups.

Even though their qualities were entirely different, John was the only person Sherlock had ever considered his true equal. John was by no means Sherlock’s assistant anymore; he’d found his own essential niche in their partnership and was even applying Sherlock’s deduction techniques in his own area of expertise now, thus saving as many lives as Sherlock solved murders. Not the least example of which was their own dear Mrs Hudson. It even felt to Sherlock as if he and John were still becoming more and more equal with each day that passed. For instance, he mused, chuffed, they had both left their DNA inside each other this week, so they were carrying around each other’s genetic information even as they went about their separate business. (Although to be honest, Sherlock wasn’t a hundred percent sure if semen actually stayed alive three days in their bodies as it did inside the vaginal environment. He would have to test that out some time, he told himself.)

As he looked at his lover, no longer aware of the other people and noises surrounding him, he was suddenly overcome by an irrational feeling of gratefulness (grateful to who?) that he had been honest with John that fateful day – which he’d initially thought had ruined everything between them, when quite the opposite was the case, he knew now. Honesty had made their relationship so much stronger, in ways he couldn’t have imagined.

“I thought you’d like some coffee,” John said, as he offered him a cup.

“Thank you,” Sherlock replied, smiling as he took it. “Actually, a very apt place just occurred to me for us to buy our rings.”

John grinned. “And here I was, thinking you were busy solving a murder.” He raised one eyebrow and one corner of his mouth. Sherlock loved how John had never stopped flirting with him, even though they were already together.

“Murders are boring, John. Compared to our wedding, at least.”

“I have to admit, I must agree on that,” John said, edging closer.

From afar, they heard Anderson yell, “Ugh, get a room, you two!”

They ignored him.

“So where did you figure we should buy them, then?” John asked.

Sherlock smiled. “At the goldsmith that made Violet’s case interesting enough for me to take it, which led to you solving it, which in turn led to us drinking wine to celebrate, and which subsequently led to--” _Our first kiss_ , he was going to say. But John provided the last bit by pressing an actual kiss to his mouth, standing right next to the body they’d been examining.

“Oi! You’re splashing bloody coffee over my bloody crime scene!” Lestrade yelled. “ I can’t bloody believe this! Out!” He waved his arms wildly. “Get out, you two, _now_. Come back when you’re married and no longer high on bloody sex hormones, for crying out loud. Go!”

Sherlock and John tried not to giggle, but failed.

“Better go,” Sherlock whispered. And to Lestrade he said, over his shoulder, “Might want to check out the neighbour with the ferret. Good afternoon!”

They fled the crime scene like naughty teenagers.

“Shall we go there right now?” John asked, timidly excited, as they headed for the main road together. “To choose our rings?”

“We might as well,” Sherlock said, trying to play it cool.

As they walked to the tube station, shoulder to shoulder, John asked, “What shall we have engraved in them, then? Just the usual – date, names – or something… less boring?”

“Hmm. Must there be something? It’s not as if I need an engraving to remember our wedding date or your name, John.”

“Well, even though you can probably ascertain beyond doubt at any given time that those rings are ours, should they ever temporarily leave our fingers for whatever reason – by the size and by the amount and distribution of sebum and so on – for the rest of us it might be useful to include a more specific clue.”

“Hmm.”

They travelled the tube chatting about the crime scene they’d just contaminated with coffee, their knees touching as they sat side by side. The ferret had been a wild guess, Sherlock admitted (although not an entirely unfounded one).

When they got off and turned into the familiar street where Violet Smith had mysteriously lost her stalker several months prior, and where Sherlock and John had performed their little act that eventually led to shifty old Jack leaving her alone for good, Sherlock took John’s hand in his. Seeing the goldsmith’s workshop in the distance felt like coming full circle. So many things had changed in his life since he was last here, only a few months ago – which was both wonderful and slightly scary. Maybe compared to that, this next step wasn’t even that big.

But still.

He swallowed.

They were going to go in there and choose the rings that would designate them as a couple till death did them part.

Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from casually remarking, “You know I only said ‘yes’ so that I would never have to use or hear the hideous terms ‘boyfriend’ or ‘partner’ ever again, right?”

John looked at him in mock wonder, before exclaiming, “That’s it! I know just the right inscription for our rings.” He looked dangerously pleased with himself, Sherlock thought.

“And what would that be?” he asked, warily.

“Well, you did once say you were married to your work. So you’re just making it official only now, right? I mean, that’s basically what we’re doing, isn’t it?” John teased.

“John…” Sherlock warned.

John stopped walking and so did Sherlock.

“Because we will still keep doing all of that, right? The Work is what binds us,” John said, looking up at Sherlock fondly. There was no trace of bitterness or sarcasm in his eyes.

“Well, yes. I hope so, in a way.”

John’s smile broadened. “You see! It’s perfect.”

“ _What?_ ”

“’Partners forever’.”

Sherlock bit both his lips at once, as he observed John’s smug grin, not sure whether to smother him, kiss him, or both.

He settled on both.

 

\- - THE END - -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I hope you’ve enjoyed this. If you have, don’t be shy to leave a comment. They are indeed very much appreciated. :)
> 
> I must say, writing this story was an enjoyable adventure, but also quite an exercise in perseverance. I'm very glad and proud to have successfully completed this writing project, which at times was rather trying but which also improved my English quite a lot, I think. :D Most importantly, it gave me a daily goal to work on during the past 2.5 years (yes, that’s how long this took!), next to my regular – and sometimes stressful – job, and I hope that people will enjoy the end result.
> 
> By the way, I felt the need to clarify that I am personally so lucky as to have dealt with only one relatively minor act of sexual aggression towards me, which nevertheless had such a big psychological impact on me that it made me want to explore in this piece of fiction what kind of long-term effects a more serious sex offence could have on someone, and also on their future relationships. Seeing as the aftermath of such things are different for everyone, and every individual deals with things in their own unique way, I hope that my conjecture of this is not too unrealistic, even though I made it up entirely.


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